Page 43 - Poetry-Country

The Pumpkin

O fruit loved by boyhood! tho old days recalling;
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon.
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine.
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less.
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below.
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow.
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie !

— John Greenleaf Whittier (Crown Jewels, 1887)

The Pumpkin Pie

Take a sharp knife—the best of its kind—
And pare off the pumpkin’s golden rind;

Then cut into cube-shaped blocks of buff,
And slowly simmer till soft enough.

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