How oft thy teats these pious hands have pressed! How oft thy bounties prove my only feast! How oft I've fed thee with my favorite grain! And roared, like thee, to see thy children slain. Ye swains who know her various worth to prize, Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies. Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer; When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan, And nurse at once your infants and her own. Milk, then, with pudding I should always choose; To this in future I confine my muse, Till she in haste some further hints unfold, Good for the young, nor useless to the old. First in your bowl the milk abundant take, Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding: these at first will hide Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide; But when their growing mass no more can sink, When the soft island looms above the brink, Then check your hand; you've got the portion due, So taught my sire, and what he taught is true. There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear. The deep-bowled Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, Performs not well in those substantial things, Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings; Where the strong labial muscles must embrace The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. With ease to enter and discharge the freight, A bowl less concave, but still more dilate, Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size, A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes. Experienced feeders can alone impart A rule so much above the lore of art. These tuneful lips that thousand spoons have tried, With just precision could the point decide, Though not in song--the muse but poorly shines In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines; Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, Is that small section of a goose-egg shell, Which in two equal portions shall divide The distance from the centre to the side. Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin;-- Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin Suspend the ready napkin; or like me, Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee; Just in the zenith your wise head project, Your full spoon rising in a line direct, Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall. The wide-mouthed bowl will surely catch them all! WILLIAM BARNES (1800-1886)