_Ruth_. Well, you're a curious creature! You should have been a preacher. But look at that bin of potatoes-- Grown in all singular shapes-- Red and in clusters, like grapes, Or more like tomatoes. Those are Merinoes, I guess; Very prolific and cheap; They make an excellent mess For a cow, or a sheep, And are good for the table, they say, When the winter has passed away. Those are my beautiful Carters; Every one doomed to be martyrs To the eccentric desire Of Christian people to skin them,-- Brought to the trial of fire For the good that is in them! Ivory tubers--divide one! Ivory all the way through! Never a hollow inside one; Never a core, black or blue! Ah, you should taste them when roasted! (Chestnuts are not half so good;) And you would find that I've boasted Less than I should. They make the meal for Sunday noon; And, if ever you eat one, let me beg You to manage it just as you do an egg. Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon, And wrap your napkin round the shell: Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell Of a white-lipped morning-glory? Well, that's the rest of the story! But it's very singular, surely, They should produce so poorly. Father knows that I want them, So he continues to plant them; But, if I try to argue the question, He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will; And puts me down with the stale suggestion-- "Small potatoes, and few in a hill." _David_. Thus is it over all the earth! That which we call the fairest, And prize for its surpassing worth, Is always rarest. Iron is heaped in mountain piles, And gluts the laggard forges; But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles And lonely gorges. The snowy marble flecks the land With heaped and rounded ledges, But diamonds hide within the sand Their starry edges. The finny armies clog the twine That sweeps the lazy river, But pearls come singly from the brine, With the pale diver. God gives no value unto men Unmatched by meed of labor; And Cost of Worth has ever been The closest neighbor. Wide is the gate and broad the way That opens to perdition, And countless multitudes are they Who seek admission. But strait the gate, the path unkind, That lead to life immortal, And few the careful feet that find The hidden portal. All common good has common price; Exceeding good, exceeding; Christ bought the keys of Paradise By cruel bleeding; And every soul that wins a place Upon its hills of pleasure, Must give its all, and beg for grace To fill the measure. Were every hill a precious mine, And golden all the mountains; Were all the rivers fed with wine By tireless fountains; Life would be ravished of its zest, And shorn of its ambition, And sinks into the dreamless rest Of inanition.