Come, listen to my story, while Your needle's task you ply; At what I sing some maids will smile, While some, perhaps, may sigh. Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames Such florid songs as ours, Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames, Can speak her thoughts by flowers. Then listen, maids, come listen, while Your needle's task you ply; At what I sing there's some may smile, While some, perhaps, will sigh. Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves, Such nets had learn'd to frame, That none, in all our vales and groves, Ere caught so much small game: While gentle Sue, less given to roam, When Cloe's nets were taking These flights of birds, sat still at home, One small, neat Love-cage making. Come, listen, maids, etc. Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task; But mark how things went on: These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask Their name and age, were gone! So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove, That, though she charm'd into them New game each hour, the youngest Love Was able to break through them. Come, listen, maids, etc. Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought Of bars too strong to sever, One love with golden pinions caught, And caged him there forever; Instructing thereby, all coquettes, Whate'er their looks or ages, That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets, 'Tis wiser to make Cages. Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile The task your fingers ply-- May all who hear, like Susan smile, Ah! not like Cloe sigh! SALAD. SYDNEY SMITH. To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day! MY LETTERS. R. HARRIS BARHAM. "Litera scripta manet."--Old Saw. Another mizzling, drizzling day! Of clearing up there's no appearance; So I'll sit down without delay, And here, at least, I'll make a clearance! Oh ne'er "on such a day as this," Would Dido with her woes oppressed Have woo'd AEneas back to bliss, Or Trolius gone to hunt for Cressid! No, they'd have stay'd at home, like me, And popp'd their toes upon the fender, And drank a quiet cup of tea: On days like this one can't be tender. So, Molly, draw that basket nigher, And put my desk upon the table-- Bring that portfolio--stir the fire-- Now off as fast as you are able!