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With tatter'd hat, and beard unshorn,
And hunting shirt defil'd and torn,
The squatter by his hearth unclean,
And as the shivering pigs crept in, He drove them through the logs again.
And as he scratch'd, and chewd his quid,
Still would the grunting guests intrude,
Close round a gaping circle press,
To gaze upon the stranger's dress,
In buckskin bag, with head of axe,
The pork no store of cabbage lacks;
No cups from foreign lands are seen,
Each dipp'd within the pot his tin,
But Hunger, ravenous guest! was there,
And gave the rough and homely fare
And Toil, blest sinnewer of the poor!
Still made the hardest cabin floor
What though the wolves with mingling howl,
And that vile hag, the big horn'd owl,
More hideous, hollow'd through the wood,
Our pilgrim as he dropt to rest,
Well pleas'd would listen to their lay,
And as the cabin planks he prest,,
Soon as the dawn of morning broke,
And through the placid river's smoke,
The red-bird whistled as he past,
The screaming jays in search of mast,
The turkey, from the tallest trees,
Soon as the coming skiff'he sees,
The streaming ducks in rapid file,
And pigeons darkening many a mile,
And now the source of morning beams
Upon the pilgrim's skiff it gleams,
And where encircling mountains bend,
He sees the pillar'd smoke ascend
He heard the whistling rustic's noise—
The barking dog, the children's voice—
Fast by the the river's shelving side,
Where piles of floating timber ride,
He climb'd the mouldering bank sublime,
Where scatter'd round by mighty Time,
Here rose the sycamores immense,
And stretch'd their whiten'd arms around,
From eating floods the best defence,
The sugar trees erect and tall,
Arrang'd their stately thousands here,
Whose trunks profusely yield to all
The limpid sweets from every tree,
Set by the entering augur free,
And through small tubes of elder flow.
Amid this maple forest gay,
Where one prodigious log was rear'd,
The kettles rang'd in black array
With wooden pails from tree to tree,
And with their mingling jokes and glee,
A little hut with leaves bespread,
With blankets for a transient bed,
And moss cramm'd in each crevice tight.
To see the thickening syrrup done,
But when the evening shades draw on,
Amid the fire enlighten'd woods,
The wanton wenches laugh and sing, For well each lightsome lass concludes
With startling whoop, in laughing trim,
They fill the kettles to the brim,
In feats of chopping wood they strive.
The lasses from the kettles neat,
With pliant lumps of sugar sweet,
And while the blazing fire burns high,
Where snug as squirrels close they lie,
"Sweet is the sugar season dear!"
The maids along Ohio sing;
The sweetest season is the Spring."
FOR THE PORT FOLIO.
THE TABLE D'HOTE, No. V.
There is no property of human nature that excites risibility on fairer terms than our total blindness to those follies and vices which form the dark shades of our characters; which diminish and often times destroy the value of our good qualities; and which excite the pity of our friends and the ridicule and contempt of our enemies.
From this extraordinary kind of blindness and folly, few men— and with deference to the ladies be it added—few women can pretend to an exemption. Hence we frequently see that persons with striking failings which an observer would suppose could not possibly escape their view for a single instant, remain as blind, deaf, and dumb to those blemishes, as if they belonged to the man in the moon, or any other of the illustrious personages with whom fancy or philosophy has peopled the planets.
But ludicrous and frequently melancholy as the picture is, it is by no means complete. It holds up to view but half of our folly on this point: for it too often happens that we are so extravagantly deluded as to lay claim to virtues the very oppositcs to our every-day follies. Were I not disposed to let the reader employ his own imagination by looking among his acquaintances for instances, I might fill a page or two with corroborative cases. .t:
The most wonderful instance I have ever met with to illustrate the ideas here submitted to the readers of the Port Folio, and indeed the instance which has given rise to these lucubrations, is that of Dr. Johnson: with the extraordinary powers of his " mighty mind,"