« ZurückWeiter »
«ugh, and retired to a corner of the room, expecting every instant to see them do battle. At the height of the disturbance the loser's husband came home, and, upon learning the cause of the disturbance, said he had removed the shirt himself, and put it into his chest. Indignation was now turned against the person who had advised the mode of divining its discovery by the borrowed Bible and key; but she boldly defended it, and said it never failed before, nor would it have failed then, had not the man in the corner, meaning me, laughed; and, she added, with malicious solemnity, that the Bible would not be laughed at. I retreated from a gathering storm, and returned home, to note down the proceedings, and forward them to the Year Book.
i S S—LLM—N.
A bed, the best you ever saw.
The full-charged glass has often sail'd,
Whilst love with ease the heart assail'd
Conclusive Answers. Campistron, the French poet, the favorite and secretary of the duke de Vendome, was gay and volatile, and little fitted for all a secretary's duties. One day, the duke quaintly pointed him out to another nobleman, and observed " There sits my secretary, busy with his answers." Campistron was engaged in burning a quantity of letters, addressed to the duke,
to save himself the trouble of acknowledging them. This was his practice with alt epistles which were not of great importance: he called it despatching business.
Mr Little Doo Bobb!
(For the Year Book.]
My friends they are cutung me, one and all.
With a changed and a cloudy brow; But my little dog always would come at my call—
And why has he not come now t
Oh! if he be living, he'd greet me,—but why Do I hope with a doubtful "if t"
When I come, and there is not a joy in his eyeWhen I come, end his tail Heth stiff?
Ah me! not a single friend may I keep!— From the false I am gladly free,
And the true and the trusty have fallen asleep. And sleep—without dreaming of me!
I have got my own soul fastened firmly and tight.
And my cold heart is safe in my bosom ;— But I would not now trust 'em out of my sight—
Or I'm positive I should lose 'em! My one sole comrade is now no more!
And I needs must mumble and mutter, That he, who had lived in a kennel before.
At last should die in "utter !
He could fight any beast from a cow to a cat, And catch any bird for his feast:
But, ah! he was killed by a big brick-bat— And a bat"* nor a bird nor a beast !
Be died of the blow !—'twas a sad hard blow
Both to me and the poor receiver;
For his bark might have cured a fever!
Is a poodle all wan and pale;
The ghost of a shadowy tail!
Old Charon will tout for his penny in vain.
For he, who so often sprang over my cane,
If Cerberus snarls at the gentle dead.
He'll act but a dogged part; The fellow may, p'rhaps, have a treble head.
But he'll have but a bare bad heart!
Farewell my dear Boh, I will keep your skin,
And your tail with its noble tuft; I have kept it through life, rather skinny and thin,—
Now I will have it properly ttuff'd.
Prometheus Percival Pipps.
March, month of " many weathers," wildly comes
And floods; while often at his cottage-door
The shepherd stands, to hear the distant roar
Clabe's Shepherd's Calendar.
In « The Book of the Seasons, By William Howitt"—which appeared since the former portions of the Year Book—there is the following character of this month, which may tempt readers to afford themselves the pleasure of possessing Mr. llowitt's work; it is a volume of delight to lovers of nature, as may be ccaceived from what its author says:— March.
March is a rude and boisterous month, possessing many of the characteristics of winter, yet awakening sensations perhaps more delicious than the two following spring months; for it gives us the first announcement and taste of spring. What can equal the delight of our hearts at the very first glimpse of spring—the first springing of buds and green herbs. It is like a new life infused into our bosoms. A spirit of tenderness, a burst of freshness and luxury of feeliug possesses us: and, let fifty springs have broken upon us, this joy, unlike many joys of time, is not an atom impaired. Are we not young? Are we not boys? Do we not break, by the power of awakened thoughts, into all the rapturous scenes of all our happier years? There is something in the freshness of I he soil—in the mossy bank—the balmy air —the voices of birds—the early and delicious flowers, that we have seen and felt only in childhood and spring.
There are frequently mornings in March when a lover of nature may enjoy, in a stroll, sensations, not to be exceeded, or perhaps equalled, by any thing which the full glory of summer can awaken: mornings which tempt us to cast the memory of winter, or the fear of its return, out of our thoughts. The air is mild and balmy, with now and then a cool gush, by no means unpleasant, but, on the contrary, contributing towards that cheering and peculiar feeling which we experience only in spring. The sky is clear; the sun flings abroad not only a gladdening splendor, but an almost summer glow. The world seems suddenly aroused to hope and enjoyment. The fields are assuming a vernal greenness—the buds are swelling in the hedges—the banks are displaying, amidst the brown remains of last year's vegetation, the luxuriant weeds of this. There are arums, ground ivy, chervil, the glaucus leaves, and burnished flowers of the pilewort,
The first gilt thing That veus the trembling pearls of spring;
and many other fresh and early bursts of greenery. All unexpectedly, too, in some embowered lane, you are arrested by the delicious odor of violets, those sweetest of Flora's children, which have furnished so many pretty allusions to the poets, and which are not yet exhausted: they are like true friends, we do not know half their sweetness till they have felt the sunshine of our kindness: and again, they are like the pleasures of our childhood, the earliest and the most beautiful. Now, however, they are to be seen in all their glory, blue and white, modestly peering through their thick, clustering leaves. The lark is carolling in the blue fields of air; the blackbird and thrush are again shouting and replying to each other, from the tops of the highest trees. As you pass cottages, they have caught the happy infection: there are windows thrown open, and doors standing ajar. The inhabitants are in their gardens, some clearing away rubbish, some turning up the light and fresh-smelling soil amongst the tufts of snow-drops and rows of bright yellow crocuses, which every where abound; and the children, ten to one, are peeping into the first bird's-nest of the season—the hedge-sparrow's, with its four sea-green eggs, snugly, but unwisely, built in the pile of old pea rods.
In the fields, laborers are plashing and trimming the hedges, and in all directions are teams at plough. You smell the wholesome, and, I may truly say, aromatic soil, as it is turned up to the sun,brown and rich, the whole country over. It is delightful, as you pass along hollow lanes, or are hidden in copses, to hear the tinkling gears of the horses, and the clear voices of the lads calling to them. It is not less pleasant to catch the busy caw of of the rookery, and the first meek cry of the young lambs. The hares are hopping about the fields, the excitement of the season overcoming their habitual timidity. The bees are revelling in the yellow catkins of the gallows.*
Bees.—The Rev. Mark Noble says, "Few persons have seen more of bees than the inhabitants of my rural residence; but, after great expense, incurred in endeavouring to forward their operations, perhaps the cottager's humble method is the best for profit."
Howitt': Book of the Seasons
A writer, in former times, ot" Handsome Descriptions," gently entreats us in spring —" Weep no more, faire weather is returned; the sunne is reconciled to mankind, and his heat hath made winter find his leggs, as benumb'd as they were.— The aire, not long since so condens'd by the frost that there was not room enough for the birds, seems now to be but a great imaginary space, where shrill musicians (hardly supported by our thoughts) appeare in the sky like little worlds, ballanccd by their proper centre : there were no colds in the country whence they came, for here they chatter sweetly. Nature brings forth in all places, and her children, as they are borne, play in their cradles. Consider the Zephyrus which dares hardly breathe in feare, how she playes and courts the corn. One would think the grasse the haire of the earth, and this wind a combe that is carefull to untangle it. I think the very sun wooes this season; for I have observed that, wheresoever he retires, he still keeps close to her. Those insolent northern winds that braved us in the absence of this god of tranquillity (surprised at his coming), unite themselves to his rayes to obtain his pardon by their caresses, and those that are greater offenders hide themselves in his atoms, and are quiet for fear of being discovered : all things that arehurtfull enjoy a free life; nay, our very soul wanders beyond her confines, to show she is not under restraint."'
My sense is ravish'd, when I see
• Bergerac's Satyrical Characters. 1658. t Daniel Cudinore's Sacred Poems, 1655.
March begins with a festival—the anniversary of St. David, the patron saint of Wales, which is kept by the natives of the principality dining together, and spending the day convivially. The 17lh of the month, St. Patrick's day, is celebrated by the sons of Erin, with a rapture of feeling and height of spirit which only Irishmen know. No particular national dish is brought forward on these occasions, though Irish pork and Welch mutton are mentioned with the same kind of distinction as English beef.
Turbot, though in season all the year, is now in great request, and large quantities are brought by Dutch fishermen from the sandbanks on the coast of Holland, which are most congenial to the breed of this fine fish. The fishing boats are pro vided with wells in which the fish are kept alive. The vast sums paid annually, by the citizens of London, for turbot, afford proof of their taste and spirit in maintaining the glory of the table. Turbot is also brought occasionally from Scotland packed in ice.
The delicate whiting is now in great perfection, and smelts during this and the two following months are in high request.
The best smelts are taken in the Thames: when perfectly fresh they are stiff and smell like a fresh cut cucumber. They are sold by tale, and vary in price from six to fifteen shillings a hundred. They are usually fried, and served up with melted butter, and a Seville orange or lemon.
The John Dory makes his first appearance this month, and, notwithstanding the uncouthness of his physiognomy and the ugliness of his person, is a welcome guest at the most elegant tables until the end of June. He is indebted for this gracious reception to his intrinsic merits, which more than atone for the disadvantages of his exterior, and are of so high an order that Quin—an eminent judge—who first brought John Dory into fashion, bestowed on him the title of "king of fish." The gurnet is in season for the same period; as also is the jack.
Leverets are fit for table from this month until about midsummer. Dovecote and wood-pigeons, together with a variety of wild fowl, are in great request, as well as wild and tame rabbits.
Die approach of spring begins to be marked by an increasing supply of vegetables for ballads. Early radishes form an agreeable accompaniment to the new cheese now introduced; the most noted is from Bath and York, but there are delicious cream cheeses manufactured in the environs of the metropolis. Custard and tansy puddings, stewed eggs, with spinach, and mock green peas, formed of the tops of forced asparagus, are among the lighter dishes which characterise the season. The strong winter soups are displaced by the soups of spring, flavored with various esculent and aromatic herbs.
Vegetable Garden Directory.
Beans; the long pod, Sandwich, Windsor, or Toker; also,
Peas; imperial, Prussian, or marrowfat, once or twice; or whenever the last 'own crops appear above ground.
Cabbages; savoys, red-cabbage, Brussels sprouts, borecole, about the first or second week.
Beet-root, early in the month; carrots, parsnips, about the second week, for main crops; or for succession, if the chief crops were sown last month.
Lettuce, small salads, and spinach, for succession.
Onions ; the Spanish for main crop; the silver for drawing young.
Leeks and cardoons. Celery and celeriac, in a warm spot of ground.
Brocoli; the different sorts, once or twice ; and the purple-cape, by M'Leod's method, to obtain an early autumn supply.
Cauliflower; about the third week, and all the sweet herbs; also nasturtium, parsley, and turnips.
Radishes; the tap, and turnip-rooted, twice or thrice.
Kidney-beans; scarlet-runners, for the first crops, during the fourth week; and salsafy, scorzonera, and skirrets.
Potatoes for the summer and autumn supply.
Asparagus-beds ; artichokes from sunl ers, in rows, each plant 4 or 5 feet apart.
Slips of balm, pennyroyal, sage, thyme savory, marjoram, rosemary, and lavender.
Lettuces,to thin the seed-beds; and all other crops that require transplanting.
Sea-kale from beds of young plants, or from cuttings of roots, with two or three eyes or buds.
Fork and Dress Asparagus beds as early as possible, if that work remain to be done.
Artichoke plantations, after removing the suckers.
Hoe and Thin
Rows of peas, beans, and other crops, when two or three inches high.
Peas before they incline to fall.
Between all crops, and eradicate weeds with the hand, where hoeing cannot be practised.
Slugs and snails; they are most enemies to young lettuces, peas, brocoli plants, ice.; seek for them early and late; and sprinkle quick-lime dust, and a little common salt, about or around drills and patches.
In those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.—Milton.
Appearance Of Nature In Spring.
The flowers that, frighten'd with sharp winter's dread,
Retire unto their mother Tellus' womb,