JUNE.

O perfect period of the sweet birds' tune,
Of Philomel and Procne, known to fable;
Of wayward morns, and never utterable
Joys of the evenglome, beneath the moon!
Cool be thy food, O gourmand, runs the Rune:
Pigeon and quail are suited to the table;
Anchovy and sardine are noticeable;

Red mullet, first of fish, is prime in June,
Richmond and Greenwich tempt the Londoner

To dine where Thames is cool, and whitebait crisp,

And soft the manners are and lax the morals.

But I (when twilight's breezes swiftly stir,

Rob the rich roses, through the woodbine lisp) Dine on my lawn, hedged in by limes and laurels. 1870.

JULY.

July,—the month of odorous orange flowers-
Welcome at nuptial banquets. Helios rages,
And on the southern wall grow brown the gages,
And melons mellow through the scorching hours;
Cherries and strawberries come in luscious showers;

Cool cream of Devon the acid touch assuages-
Delectable to deipnosophic sages;

Through the full-foliaged copse the leveret scours.

Flutters the wheatear now, and sails the plover— Whoso is wise the latter bird will roast,

And serve him, smoking on anchovy toast.

What else? Blue borage flowers; and so the lover
Of cooling drinks, with claret-cup may try
To mitigate the fervour of July.

1870.

AUGUST.

August arrives. We enter the august

Portal of autumn, graced by delicate clusters Of grapes grown purple under noontide lustres, Whence the white feet of girls shall tread the must Of a great vintage. But the perilous dust

Of battle rises, and the War Fiend blusters, And, as along the Rhine each army musters, Its vineyards shudder at the sword's sharp thrust. Still rolls the year: adjourns the Commons' House:

Peers to their parks and prelates to their cloisters Return: for lo, the Twelfth brings back the Grouse— Even as the famous Fourth is opening Oysters. Birds and mollusks to the Epicure most dearAlas, and dearer every mortal year!

SEPTEMBER.

Alas! September shakes a great dominion:
Crushed is the gastromic Capital.

Who eats Cramouski à la Cardinal,

Rôti de grives, or partridge-soup with Bignon ?
Who to the Café Anglais takes sa mignonne,
As in the reckless days Imperial,
Ere Prussia camped before the City-wall,
Or a great Empire fell for an opinion?
Ay, and the Aï Béranger loved so well,

Clicquot and Heidsieck, Piper, Moët, Roederer, Shall not be quaffed in Pleasure's fair pavilions; These slake the thirst of tasteless Teuton millions, Cooling the throat of many a licensed murdererWhich I consider a confounded sell.

1870.

OCTOBER.

October! Month of the climax! King of game, The pheasant, of the beech-copse peerless denizen, Deserves the epicure's right earnest benison, Deserves the well-skilled sportsman's careful aim. ... [Alas, hens hatch them, and they're much too tame!] Moreover, excellent is red-deer venison;

And partridge, plump as girl be-rhymed by

Tennyson,

Still on the palate hath a special claim.

You can begin with oysters-go to Rule's:
A sturgeon cutlet makes a pleasant dish
For any one who likes unusual fish-

But the herring suits the men who are not fools.
Final delight--a woodcock or a snipe :

And the first frost will make the medlars ripe.
1869.

NOVEMBER.

Now nobler grows the sirloin of the ox,

As autumn fields grow mistier and moister; And, dainty fit to tempt a nun from cloister, November for the epicure unlocks

The secret of the truffle.

Humanity with foies.

Strasburg shocks

Who love to royster

Know well that plumper, sweeter, grows the oyster: While for fierce-hungry followers of the fox,

Who love a mighty joint of the ancient sort, Washed down with mighty gulps of ancient port,

After a rapid run a royal revel

For them the solid splendour of the beef; Capon and pheasant yield a light relief; And turkeys' thighs are now just fit to devil.

G

DECEMBER.

I don't know what to say about December:
It is the very month of hospitality,

Through which let no vile air of unreality
Breathe to annoy one. Don't we all remember
Some Christmas time of boyhood-some slow ember
Of the Yule log that had its actuality

Two decades back? You'd give a principality

To be a boy again, and to dismember

Your goose with the boy's invincible appetite,
And eat thereafter fifty-five mince pies,

And think that you had wisely bridged the

isthmus

Betwixt two years. What will you say to-night, Having grown somewhat cool, and calm, and wise, And not particularly fond of Christmas?

1871.