"RHODE ISLAND TALES!
pray tell me why?"
Cries many a little tongue,
"For narrow is her
boundary,
The other states among.
"Like Massachusetts or
New York,
She has no city fair,
Nor is there any mighty work
Of art or science there."
Take then a map, my little
friends,
And looking on the same,
Behold the verdant Island,
whence
The state derives its name.
A lovlier island doth not
lay
Beneath the moon and sun,
The Indians called it
Aquiday,
And here dwelt many a one.
Till near two hundred years
ago,
Came white men o'er the main,
And brought of toys, a goodly show.
The natives' land to gain.
Among the rest, a little
band
This lovely island chose,
And of the sachem bought the
land,
For cloths, and beads, and hoes.
A pleasant town they built
with speed,
And wholesome laws did frame,
And 'stead of Aquiday,
decreed
Rhode-Island as its name.
And to this early race
succeeds,
As year roll'd after year,
The boys and girls, whose
names or deeds,
You find recorded here.
For all these children, weak
or wise,
Whom good or ill befell,
With her who wrote their
histories,
Doth on that island dwell.
And thus a reason fair and
good,
Its title doth explain;
And if its aim be
understood,
This book is not in vain.
YOUNG THOMAS rose one
morning,
And from his chamber high,
Saw, with delight, the sun
was bright,
And beautiful the sky.
For with his mother and his
aunt.
This day full well he knew,
For him was plann'd a
pleasant jaunt,
Across the water blue.
And soon from head to foot
complete,
This little boy was drest,
But yet no breakfast could
he eat,
So full of joy his breast.
Ere ten o'clock their trunks
were pack'd,
And all were in array,
Nor yet a piece of cake they
lack'd,
To eat upon the way.
Oh had you seen the pretty
boat
With mast, and sail, and
oar,
In which the happy party
float
The peaceful billows o'er.
By pebbly shore and island
green,
Where thick the bushes grew,
Each little girl and boy I
ween,
Had longed to be there too.
But soon arrived, they find
with joy,
Their cousin kind had come,
With greeting fair to meet
them there,
And take them to his home
With good brown horse and
wagon bright,
In which was room enough,
For better far than chaises
light,
Are these when roads are
rough.
The good horse trotted with
his load,
The whip he did not need,
And o'er the high and rugged
road,
Our travellers bore with speed.
I cannot tell each charming
sight,
That rose on Thomas' view,
Nor paint his wonder and delight,
For all to him was new.
Here swam a flock of
gabbling geese,
In waters bright and still,
Nor did the sheep their
gambols cease,
About the verdant hill.
The cattle from their grassy
meal,
Rais'd up a heavy eye,
And many a pig sent forth
its squeal,
As roll'd the wagon by.
And now the house appear'd
in view,
That they should tarry in,
And forth the little
house-dog flew,
And forth came all their kin.
And kindly welcome gave each
guest,
And full refreshment
brought,
Till evening came, and needful rest
Each weary traveller sought.
"Dear mother,"
next morning the little boy said.
"Pray tell me by whom
this fine country was made;
At home, in our town, where
the houses are thick,
I know how they make them of
timber and brick;
I have oft seen the mason
and carpenter too,
With trowel and hammer their
labors pursue;
And the paver lay down the
round stone with his hand,
Then fill all the spaces
with gravel and sand.
But not half so fine do his
labors appear,
A s doth the fair covering
that's every where here.
This beautiful grass with
its flowers so sweet—
Nor do I remember a house in
the street
So high as that tree where
the little bird sings,
Do tell me, dear mother, who
made all these things?"
"Our Father in
Heaven," did his mother reply,
"The Lord, thy Creator,
who dwells in the sky,
Above the bright cloud which
thou lov'st to behold,
At sunset all spotted with
crimson and gold;
He made all these things,
the wide earth and the seas,
The hills and the mountains,
the rocks and the trees,
This carpet of grass with
its blossoms so fair,
The beasts of the wood, and
the fowls of the air,
All which thou beholdest in
sunshine or shade,
Thy Father, thy own Heavenly
Father bath made.
And life, health and
strength bath he given to thee,
And hearing and eye-sight
these beauties to see.
If thou art but good in thy
grief and thy joy,
He will guard thee and make
thee his own little boy;
Will lead thee in safety,
through life, and will even
Take thee to dwell in His
beautiful Heaven."
'Twas near the close of the
day, yet bright
The sun shone o'er the hill,
And pour'd a flood of golden
light
On every object still.
With hat in hand and reeking
brows,
Did little Thomas come,
For he had been to bring the
cows,
From distant pasture home.
Now seated on the gray stone
wall,
Which all the yard
surrounds,
His eye attentive noted all
That passed within its
bounds.
With snow-white pail, the
dairy's pride,
Each milker seated low,
Rested his head against the
side
Of every gentle Cow.
From Brown, and Pied, and
Black, and Red,
The milk with ease was
drawn,
But Brindle fiercely shook
her head,
And raised her pointed horn.
Away she ran, but boy and
man
Soon overtook and tied her,
And sturdy Ben, to milk her then,
Sat closely down beside her.
"So! so!" they
cried, "stand steady now!"
But all would not avail,
For with her foot the
restless cow,
Soon overthrew the pail.
On dirt and sward the milk
was pour'd,
By Brindle's luckless blow,
And in a pen, they put her
then,
Till she should tamer grow.
The rest were turn'd (the
milking done)
To feed in grassy field,
Till summon'd by the rising
sun,
Their morning's milk to
yield.
One morning Thomas stood
beside
Where all the pigs were
feeding,
And much was he amazed to
see
Their utter want of
breeding.
Their breakfast, whether
thick or thin,
So greedily they swallow,
Not only mouth and nose went
in,
But feet and legs must follow.
They fought and kick'd, and
squeal'd and cri'd,
In long and loud contention,
As each fat porker push'd
aside
Some pig of less dimension.
Full many a pail of whey
they pour
Into a trough well hollow'd,
And each, when he could eat
no more,
Into a puddle wallow'd.
Save one, who slily made his
way
Where a large tub was
filling,
And of sweet buttermilk and whey,
Long unperceived, kept
swilling.
Till now quite full, he
turned around
To join his muddy brothers,
But felt so ill that soon he found
He could not reach the
others.
And as fie cried aloud with
pain,
Upon the green grass lying,
The people came, and very plain
They saw the pig was dying.
For of the buttermilk and
whey,
His skin was full to
bursting,
And there his swelling carcass lay,
A figure most disgusting!
His breath grew shorter till
he died,
And there a grave they made
him,
A very pleasant pond beside,
Where quietly they laid him.
In Thomas' eyes came
tear-drops big,
And quick his heart was
beating;
Nor has he yet forgot the
pig
That died from over-eating.
THE WRENS
When April days were warm,
To seek a summer's dwelling
place,
Came flying round the farm,
And not a former tenant
fail'd,
His last year's lodge to
spy,
For many a little box was
nail'd
About the buildings high.
Beside the chamber window,
there
Hung one of curious frame,
To this a newly wedded pair,
To take possession came.
Here sticks, and straws, and
moss they brought,
Their little nests to form,
And many an hour the couple
wrought,
To make it snug and warm.
One from the house beheld
them oft,
And strove the work to aid,
By locks of wool and cotton
soft,
Upon the window laid.
With joy she saw them bear
them hence,
And to their nest convey,
And still increasing
confidence
They gather'd every day.
Their friend, kind hearted,
often came
With many a goodly crumb,
And knocking on the window
frame,
Would say, "Are Wrens
at home?"
Forth at the sound the
little birds
Would come, and fearless
stand,
To take the bread and
snow-white curds
From her protecting hand.
They laid their eggs, they
hatch'd their young,
In peace and safety there,
And many a grateful song
they sung,
On summer mornings fair.
NEWPORT FIFTY YEARS AGO
THE VISIT CONCLUDED
And the time for returning
to Newport was nigh,
Yet Thomas was almost
astonish'd to learn
That a week had elapsed, and
'twas time to return.
He had been to the wood
midst the forest trees fine,
He had seen the tall maple,
the oak, and the pine,
The walnut, with fruit, yet
unripe, well supplied,
And the chestnut, with burs
like the porcupine's side.
Here birds for their nests
and their young ones found room,
Here dwelt the grey
squirrel, with tail like a plume,
In some old hollow tree was
his house and his young,
And their little eyes
glistened the branches among.
And Thomas had been where
the bushes were seen
All loaded with berries,
black, scarlet and green.
The black and the ripe he
had gather'd, but still
Hung the rest for the
sun-beams to ripen and fill.
And hundreds of sheep in the
pasture at play,
With their beautiful lambs,
he had seen every day;
And hens with their
chickens, both half-grown and small,
The geese in the water, and
calves in the stall.
And ere he departed, this
little boy had
A kind invitation which made
his heart glad,
Next summer to come, when
the weather was warm,
And again spend a week with
his friends at the farm.
The morning was fine and the
weather was cool,
When Thomas return'd to his
books and his school,
And often doth he to his
play-mates unfold
Some part of the story that
here hath been told.
At midnight from the silent
street,
There came a mingled hum,
Of voices and of passing
feet,
And loudly beaten drum.
A child was lost, nor could
be found
In alley, street, or lane;
His friends and father
sought around,
But sought him all in vain.
Though many a lantern lent
its aid,
And torches beam'd on high,
In vain the mournful party stray'd,
Till morning lit the sky.
Then by the water's side
they came,
And there, Oh! sad they say,
All cold and wet his lifeless frame
Upon the sea-weed lay.
That morning when he stray'd
from home,
The little fellow plann'd,
Along the water's edge to
roam.
Among the yellow sand.
And as he sported free from
care,
The slippery rocks around,
The rising tide surpris'd
him there,
And overwhelm'd and drown'd!
They bore him home, a
mournful sight!
And speedily array'd
His little form in spotless
white,
And in a coffin laid.
Next came his friends, a
mournful band,
To form the funeral throng,
Where many children hand in
hand,
Went mournfully along.
In grave-yard green may
still be seen
A monumental stone,
And letters fair engraven
there,
His name and age make known.
THE HISTORY OF A HAPPY CAT
In eighteen hundred and
eighteen,
In pleasant time of spring,
The pretty kitten first was seen,
Whose history I sing.
And first her pedigree to
tell,
Was born, I understand,
Of parents as respectable,
As any in the land.
Tib, she was called, for
why?—
It was her mother's name—
And lively was the kitten's
eye,
And active was her frame.
The coat of fur that cover'd
her,
Was goodly to the sight,
For spots of grey and yellow
shone
Amid a milky white.
She quickly learned, both
rat and mouse
To combat or surprise,
For these abounded in the
house
Where, first she op'd her eyes.
For half a year she tarried
here,
Then hasten'd to reside
Among a quiet family,
Whose cat had lately died.
Here play'd she many a
youthful trick,
Which gain'd her great
applause;
The rolling ball would
follow quick,
And seize between her paws.
The floating feather she
would chase,
And with a spring attain,
And not a fly could buzz in
peace,
About the window pane.
But one mischievous trick of
puss,
I mention to her shame:
To see the mistress of the
house,
A gentle lady came.
Tib saw the bonnet of the
guest
Most carefully laid down,
Then slily crept to take her rest
Within the satin crown.
She drew her head, and tail,
and ears,
Into this quiet station,
And not a single hair
appears
To common observation.
And when at length she took
her hat,
The lady could but stare,
And laugh to see a sleeping
cat,
So snugly settled there.
Six years roll'd smoothly
like the first,
From every evil free,
And many a kitten had she
nurs'd,
The prettiest that might be.
These to their mother did
afford
Much joy and recreation,
And each when grown was
placed abroad,
In proper situation.
A most unusual sound one
night
Was heard, and Tib thereby
Was waken'd from her
slumbers light,
It was a baby's cry.
TAME FOXES
And no such sound had met
her ears
Within that ancient dome,
In all the many quiet years
That this had been her home.
Straight up the stairway did
she spring,
And there beheld the elf,
A little helpless whining
thing,
No bigger than herself.
She lov'd him from his
earliest day,
And oft would rub her head
Against his side in friendly way,
And sit beside his bed.
Tib now is old, while little
Tom
Has grown a stately boy,
Who, since her feeble days
have come,
Doth many an hour employ,
In playing with the gentle
cat,
With bread and milk doth
feed,
And gives her meat both lean
and fat,
According to her need.
She yet may live for years
to come,
Nor will a cruel heart,
E'er bid her from her
ancient home,
And early friends depart.
And should a trick unkind be
wrought
By any upon her,
It shall be told as quick as
thought
By her biographer.
THE DEATH OF THE HAPPY CAT
It now becomes me to relate,
The time of Tibby's death
In eighteen hundred
twenty-eight,
She drew her latest breath.
Old age and slow disease
conspired,
This faithful cat to slay,
And in the garden she
expired,
About the last of May.
Her's was a happy life
indeed,
So shelter'd and secure,
From all the persecutions freed.
That many cats endure,
Tho' duly fed with meat and
bread,
At morn and evening too,
No man, or youth, or child
in truth,
A better mouser knew.
The closet door oft stood
ajar,
Each shelf with viands
crown'd,
Yet not the worse, for
honest puss,
Were ere the dishes found.
If even a cat such praise
can gain,
For honest, faithful deed,
O how much more should those
attain,
Who think, and speak, and read.
John to his mother softly
cri'd,
"God made us all, I
know,
And sometimes when our
friends have died.
You said, 'God will'd it
so.' "
"He forms us, puts us
here on earth.
Then makes us sick and die,
Why is it so, this death and
birth,
Dear mother, tell me why?"
The earth is all the Lord's
my dear,
And every girl and boy,
He kindly made, and plac'd
them here,
Its beauties to enjoy.
He gives them fathers,
mothers kind,
And guards them night and day,
And bids them all his
precepts mind,
While here on earth they stay.
If good to evil they prefer,
And daily seek his grace,
Death comes but as the
messenger,
To lead them to His face.
There lovelier than the
rainbow bright,
Their dwelling place will
be,
With angels and with saints
in light,
A glorious company.
To serve the Lord, from
youth to age,
Thy being hath been given,
And may thy earthly pilgrimage
Prepare thy mind for Heaven.
"This box little Lydia
can put in its place,"
Said her uncle so feeble and
lame,
So he gave her his razor
shut up in its case,
And bade her take care of
the same.
But Lydia had seen one so
polish'd and bright
In the hand of her uncle
display'd,
And when she was once fairly
out of his sight,
She open'd the case, and
beheld with delight,
The beautiful handle and
blade.
She met her young sister,
"Dear Abby," she said,
"This beautiful thing
only see;
Sit down here directly and
hold up your head,
And I'll shave you as nice
as can be."
Now Abby was wash'd, and a
plaster they bring,
For the wound on the face
most befitting,
And Lydia was told what a
terrible thing,
She had been on the point of
committing.
Both resolv'd for the future
such playthings to shun,
And well they remember'd the
warning,
For I've heard of no
mischief that either has done,
Since that most unfortunate
morning.
Little Abby consented, and
straight they begin
Their dangerous play with
delight,
But oh! the first stroke
brought the blood from her chin,
And they both screamed aloud
with affright.
At the sound of their voices
their mother appear'd,
And well might such figures
amaze her,
For one little girl was with
blood all besmear'd,
And the other was holding a
razor.
THE LITTLE GIRL TO HER
NEEDLE
My shining needle much I
prize,
Thy taper form and slender
size,
And well I love thee now,
Though when I first began to
sew.
Before thy proper use I
knew,
And often prick'd my fingers
through,
A trial sore wert thou.
But soon thy motions to
control
In collar, wristband, button
hole,
My ready hand attains,
And then a pretty case
suppli'd,
With "Hemming's Royal
silver eyed,"
All placed in papers side by
side,
Was giv'n me for my pains.
My needle, when with thee
employ'd,
How many an hour have I
enjoy'd,
That else had heavy hung;
For while my fingers guided
thee,
My thoughts have travell'd
pleasantly
O'er hill and dale, o'er
land and sea,
And distant friends among.
Alone with thee, I often
times
Fill up the hour in singing
rhymes,
And making sounds agree;
Convenience, comfort,
neatness, too,
My polish'd needle are thy
due,
And dearly will each damsel
rue
Her negligence of thee.
And not alone in labors
light,
I'll speed thee on, my
needle bright,
The helpless oft shall find,
A little girl can help to
form
Full many a garment stout
and warm,
To shield from winter's wind
and storm
The aged and the blind.
Note.—It is not strange that girls were anxious to
excel in needlework when there were no sewing machines.
At the fair of the American National Institute held
in New York City in the year 1850, it is remembered there was a sewing machine
on exhibition which attracted much attention, as but few people then had ever
seen one. The operator told the crowd around him that the coat he was wearing
was made on the machine, which seemed to them almost incredible.
I knew a lass, but quite too
long
Was her whole name to weave
in song,
And lest a change she should
condemn,
We'll only call her Sarah M.
—
Now from her youth, this
damsel's mind
Was most industriously
inclin'd,
No little girl could stitch
or hem,
Or sew a seam like Sarah M.
—
Her father had not wealth to
spare,
For other children claimed
his care,
And little Sarah early
learn'd,
That her own living must he
earn'd.
Yet no complaining Sally
made,
That she must work while
others play'd,
But set about with right
good will,
The task her fingers should
fulfill.
Though aching head and weary
sight,
Were sometimes hers, her
heart was light,
For equal was her
well-earn'd store,
For food, and clothes, and
something more.
And while she diligently
drew,
Her ready needle through and
through,
She gain'd far more than
worldly pelf,
She learn'd to commune with
herself.
And this communion deep and
still,
Soon led her heart to know
its ill,
And ask her Maker to impart,
For Jesus' sake, a better
heart.
Now had she spent in early
days,
Her time in idleness and
plays,
At work repining, sought her
joys
With careless girls and idle
boys
Her after years had never
known,
The independence now her
own,
Perhaps the frolic hours had
even
Dispell'd the thoughts which
turned to heaven,
But care and industry are
found,
With heaven, and earth's
best blessing crown'd.
And those who truly value
them,
Should early do like Sarah
M.—
The roving eye might vainly
seek
A fairer to behold,
Than little Edward's rosy
cheek,
When he was eight years old.
And those who love a merry
glance,
No brighter eye had seen,
Nor lighter limb to skip a
dance
In meadow or in green.
But Edward's charms of
better kind,
With more delight I praise,
For sweet and gentle was his
mind,
And pleasant all his ways.
No angry passions fierce and
wild,
No evil thought or plan,
Had place in this beloved
child.
Throughout his little span.
In health and strength he grew,
till came
His ninth revolving year,
Then sickness seized his
little frame
And suffering most severe.
For many a month upon his
bed
His feverish limbs were laid,
Nor could he raise his
aching head
Without his mother's aid.
Yet patient lay the little
boy,
And no repining word,
Or fretful wish for others'
joy,
From Edward's lips was
heard.
Though gentle summer came,
and strew'd
Fresh beauties o'er the
earth,
He went not to the field or
wood
To share his play-mates'
mirth.
Though winter, from the
frozen north,
Brought ice and snow along,
Yet little Edward went not
forth
To join the merry throng,
The rose departed from his
cheek,
The brightness from his eye;
And soon his spirit fled to
seek
Its Father in the sky;
Who in his love, from pain
and strife,
Such little ones will take,
And give them endless light
and life
For our Redeemer's sake.
His happy spirit went to
heaven,
To join in praising God,
His body to the earth was
given,
And rests beneath the sod,
Long will his many friends
approve
His manners sweet and mild,
And tell his innocence and
love
To many a listening child,
His mother's heart the sad,
the sweet
Remembrance doth employ,
And full her trust in heaven
to meet
Her blessed little boy.
One afternoon, the drenching
rain
Came pattering on the window
pane,
And little Thomas had not
power
To reach the school-house
through the shower.
His seat was to the
fire-side drawn,
He brought a basket filled
with corn,
And there commenced the
mighty job,
To part the kernel from the
cob.
Success attended Thomas'
pains,
Down rattled fast the
falling grains,
And in an hour or two he'd
shell'd
Each well dried ear his
basket held.
Now carefully in shovel
spread,
He parch'd them o'er the
embers red,
And shaken off with motion
true,
Away the bouncing white caps
flew.
He gathered these with
shouts of mirth
From every corner of the
hearth,
And in his basket clean and
tight,
Deposited both brown and
white.
His aunt, with busy fingers
sewing,
Oft turned to see what Tom
was doing;
And when completed, smiling
said,
'On corn like this the
Indians fed.'
The Indians—that delightful
word,
With pleasure Thomas always
heard,
And straight began he to
implore,
For stories often heard
before.
He took his basket, made his
seat
Upon the cushion at her
feet,
And while his eyes with
pleasure glisten,
Began at once to eat and
listen.
The Indians who my tale
describes
Have long since passed away,
But feeble remnants of the
tribes,
Survive the present day.
Yet once in free and
fearless guise
They roved this land within,
With straight black hair,
and coal black eyes,
And copper-colored skin.
They dwelt in wigwams
strange and rude,
To polished lands unknown;
For skins, or straw, on
poles of wood,
Were fashioned like a cone.
No pleasant window gave it
light,
No chimney rose to view,
But a small hole at topmost
height,
The smoke came pouring
through.
A log of wood, or well dried
skin,
Supplied the place of door;
No chair or table was
within,
And all without a floor.
No whitewashed wall the
wigwam graced,
No mason lent his aid;
But stones were in the
middle placed,
Whereon the fire was laid.
Round this the Indians
squatted close,
When winter storms were
wild,
Squaws were their women, and
papoose
They called each little
child.
Around the blazing wigwam
fire
They fags and oziers
brought,
And mats and baskets, son
and sire
With skillful fingers
wrought.
The females lent their
willing aid,
For mats were all their bed,
Their limbs beside the fire
were laid,
With skins of beasts
o'erspread.
Instead of glass or pictures
hung,
The wigwam to adorn,
Dried fish about the walls
were strung,
And ears of Indian corn.
A bow and arrows fashioned
neat,
His venison to procure,
With fishing tackle, made
complete
An Indian's furniture.
Pray would you ken, how
Indian men
Contrived to manage trading,
When not a cent was ever spent,
And not a dollar paid in.
Of notes or change, this
people strange
Had not the smallest notion,
But bought and sold, instead
of gold,
With shells from out the ocean.
But not each kind which they
might find,
Increased their stock of
riches;
They wrought with art a
little part
Of one peculiar species.
This shell they sought, this
part they wrought
In beads fair, round and
shining,
Which wampum named, were
priz'd and fam'd
Through all the lands
adjoining.
Some beads were made of
pearly shade,
For chieftain's decoration;
Some black as jet, were
valued yet
In higher estimation.
The Sachem felt from wampum
belt,
All honor, pride and pleasure,
That e'er did knight from
baldric bright,
Or merchant from his
treasure.
When chiefs desire the
council fire,
For purpose high convening,
The wampum strings each
warrior brings,
Have here peculiar meaning.
These varied cords, like
written words,
Record the chiefs'
proceedings,
Like parchment roll, or
printed scroll,
Laid up for after reading.
You well may call these
Indians all,
A people strange and funny,
Since beads they took for
record book,
And ornaments and money.
When cold in death the
Indian lay,
From sharp disease or slow
decay,
The attending friends around
him crowd,
And raise their lamentations
loud.
No winding sheet of spotless
hue,
Around his stiffen'd limbs they
drew,
Nor e'en do they with
mournful care,
A coffin for his form
prepare.
Arrayed in all his choicest
things,
His furs, his plume, his
wampum strings,
On skin of deer, or
household mat,
They place him as in life he
sat.
And thus address the
senseless clay:
"My brother, wilt thou
go away?"
Why leave our fields and
forests fair,
"To wander in the
trackless air?
"Thy hands were strong
and keen thine eyes,
"Thy foot was fleet,
thy words were wise;
"In peace or war, in
grief or mirth,
"We'll mourn thy
absence from the earth.
"Thy bow we place
beside thy hand,
"To aid thee in the
spirits' land,
"And fur, and plume,
and wampum bead,
"On thy long journey
wilt thou need."
Thus they the silent corpse
address,
In words of woe and
tenderness,
Then raise a wild and
mournful yell,
To hid the dead a last
farewell.
The corpse then wrapped in
mat and skin,
They place a shallow grave
within,
And earth and stones o'er
this they raise,
To mark the spot in after
days.
Who views with scorn our
Indian corn,
When filled with milky
juice;
Who has not known, when
fully grown,
Its excellence and use.
This chief of vegetable
food,
The Indian's wants supplied,
And dressed in many a
fashion rude,
Was eaten green and dried.
The women first prepared the
soil,
In which the corn must grow,
And heavy must have been the toil,
With clam-shell for a hoe.
The chiefs and warriors held
in scorn
The labors on the land,
And hunters thought that
raising corn
Was fit for woman's hand.
'Twas theirs to till, to
tend each hill,
To gather its produce,
And then prepare their
dishes rare,
For sannup* and papoose.§
Full many a name uncouth and
harsh
These preparations own,
When boil'd with beans 'twas
succatash,
Nausamp, when boil'd alone.
Nokekick, or nocake, dried
and parched
And into powder beat;
Full many a mile the Indians
marched,
With only this to eat.
When came our pilgrim
fathers forth,
This grain they ne'er had
seen,
But from the Indians learned
its worth,
And uses, dried and green.
Now not a child of six years
old,
In fair New England horn,
Has need, by word or sign,
be told,
The use of Indian corn.
* Husband § Child
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