They must have changed a deal since then; The misses, tall and fair, And those three handsome, lusty men,-- Would they be girls and boys again, Were I to happen there, Down in that spot beside the sea Where we made such tumultuous glee That dull autumnal weather? Ah, me! the years go swiftly by; And yet how fondly I recall The week when we were children all, Dear Hawthorne children, you and I, Just eight of us together!
ONCE on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show; And after we had revelled in the saltatory sights, We sought a neighboring _café_ for more tangible delights. When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, He quoth: "A large cold bottle, and a small hot bird!"
Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine, A certain inspiration which I cannot well define! How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: "Come! on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"
But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate,-- How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate! You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; To me, at least, (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred What horror was encompassed in that small hot bird.
Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day, And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay! What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! And oh the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!
The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said, Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head, And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred, Was the large cold bottle,--_not_ the small hot bird.
Of course I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right If ever it has been your wont to train around at night. How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast, And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!