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Comments by Bill - 26 Aug 2007

Re: The Lord God Planted a Garden and God's Garden

Mary & Frank Hoffman.

After my last email, I decided to research the poem by Dorothy Frances Gurney still further. There does seem to be some controversy over the title. I'm still trying to confirm the title with absolute certainty.

In the meantime, remembering that you're vegetarians, I can't resist sending you another poem I happened across today:

The Proud Vegetables

In a funny little garden not much bigger than a mat,
There lived a thriving family, its members all were fat;
But some were short, and some were tall, and some were almost round,
And some ran high on bamboo poles, and some lay on the ground.

Of these old Father Pumpkin was, perhaps, the proudest one.
He claimed to trace his family vine directly from the sun.
"We both are round and yellow, we both are bright." said he,
"A stronger family likeness one could scarcely see."

Old Mrs. Squash hung on the fence; she had a crocked neck,
Perhaps 't was hanging made it so, - her nerves were quite a wreck.
Near by, upon a planted row of faggots, dry and lean,
The young cucumbers climbed to swing their Indian clubs of green.

A big white daikon hid in earth beneath his leafy crest;
And a mole-like sweet potatoes crept around his quiet nest.
Above were growing pearly pease, and beans of many kinds
With pods like tiny castanets to mock the summer winds.

There, in a spot that feels like the sun, the swarthy egg-plant weaves
Great webs of frosted tapestry and hangs them out for leaves.
Its funny azure blossoms give a merry, shrivelled wink,
And lifting up the leaves display great drops of purple ink.

Now, life went on in harmony and pleasing indolence
Till Mrs. Squash had vertigo and tumbled off the fence;
But not earth she fell! Alas, - but down, with all her force,
Upon old Father Pumpkin’s head, and cracked his skull, of course.

At this a fearful din arose. The pods began to split,
Cucumbers turned a sticky hue, the daikon had a fit,
The sweet potatoes rent the ground, - the egg-plant dropped his loom,
While every polished berry seemed to gain an added gloom.

And, worst of all, there came a man, who once had planted them.
He dug that little family up by root and leaf and stem,
He piled them high in baskets, in a most unfeeling way -
All this was told me by the cook, - we ate the last to-day.

Mary McNeil Fenollosa

Go on to: Comments by Frank and Mary Hoffman - 26 Aug 2007

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