LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;

I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own;→

And close at hand is such a one,

In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;-
If Nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;-
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

i

I care not much for gold or land;—
Give me a mortgage here and there,—
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,-

I only ask that Fortune send

A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,

And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,-
But only near St. James;

I'm very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin

To care for such unfruitful things;One good-sized diamond in a pin,— Some, not so large, in rings,

A ruby, and a pearl, or so,

Will do for me;-I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good heavy silks are never dear;)— I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere,Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait-two forty-five-

Suits me; I do not care;

Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own

Titians and Raphaels three or four,-
I love so much their style and tone,-
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape, foreground golden dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few, some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;--

Some little luxury there

Of red morocco's gilded gleam,

And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems, such things as these, Which others often show for pride,

I value for their power to please,

And selfish churls deride;—

One Stradivarius, I confess,

Two meerschaums, I would fain possess.

The Boys

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,

Nor ape the glittering upstart focl;—
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share,-
I ask but one recumbent chair.

1745

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,-
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!
Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

THE BOYS

HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! .We're twenty! Who says we are more? He's tipsy, young jackanapes!-show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"-Yes! white if we please! Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will not see a sign of a flake!

We want some new garlands for those we have shed,-
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,-.
Of talking (in public) as if we were old:-

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;"
It's a neat little fiction,-of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"-the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?

That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name?-don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!

So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;

When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,—
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,—
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?-You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with pen,-
And I sometimes have asked,-Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS!
Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE

TWAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
Tall and slender, and sallow and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
His long, thin hair was as white as snow,