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To A Friend In The City, From Her Friend In The Country.

by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

By especial request I take up my pen,

To write a few lines to my dear Mrs. N.;

And though nothing of depth she has right to expect;

Yet the will for the deed she will not reject

The task, on reflection, is a heavy one quite,

As here in the country we've no news to write;

For what is to us very new, rich, and rare,

To you in the city is stale and thread bare.

Should I write of Hungary, Kossuth, or the Swede,

They are all out of date, antiquated indeed.

I might ask you with me the New Forest to roam,

But it's stript of its foliage, quite leafless become;

N.P. Willis and rival have each had their day,

And of rappings and knockings there's nought new to say.

Yet do not mistake me, or think I would choose,

A home in the city, the country to lose;

The music of birds, with rich fruits and sweet flowers,

We all in the country lay claim to as ours.

A bird that's imprisoned, I hate to hear sing,

Let me catch its glad note as it soars on the wing;

Its carol so sweet as it's floating along,

It seems the Creator to praise in its song.

With the sweetest of poets I often exclaim,

"God made the country," - let the pride of man claim

The town with its buildings, its spires, and its domes,

But leave us in the country our sweet quiet homes.

The scenery around us is lovely to view,

It charmed when a child, and at three-score charms too.

Then leave me the country with its birds, fruits, and flowers,

And the town, with its pleasures and crowds, may be yours.

E'en in winter the country has right to the claim

Of charms equal to summer; to be sure, not the same.

See winter, stern monarch, as borne on the gale,

He comes armed cap-a-pie in his white coat of mail;

Behold what a change he hath wrought in one night,

He has robed the whole country in pure spotless white.

He fails not to visit us once every year,

But finds us prepared for him - meets with good cheer,

And a most cordial welcome from all of us here.

When with us he's quite civil and very polite,

In manners most courtly, and dignified quite;

But I'm told were he goes unexpected he's rough,

Chills all by his presence, and savage enough.

Hark, hear how it storms! blowing high and yet higher;

But then we've books, music, and a brilliant wood fire,

Where logs piled on logs give one warmth e'en to see;

Oh! these evenings in winter are charming to me.

In good keeping these logs are with wind and the hail,

Everything in the country is on a grand scale.

You have nought in the city I think can compare,

To the bright glowing hearth from a good country fire.

To be sure, now and then, one is cheered by the sight

Of wood fire in the city, but when at its height

Compared to our fires, Lilliputianal quite.

But here I will stop, for I think it quite time

To have done with my boasting, and finish my rhyme.

M.A.H.T. BIGELOW.

Weston, April 6, 1852.

P.S. And now, my dear friend, it is certainly fair,

Your city advantages you should compare

With ours in the country, let me know what they are.