Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 October 1883 — Poetry and Turnips. [ARTICLE]

Poetry and Turnips.

It has been stated by some gushing poet in a turbulant avalanche of wild, highly-colored words that, although there are many epicurian treats in this sad commercial vale of ours, there is is not a single one in the whole rosary that begins to make anything like a decent approximation to the little flat, white turnip that he used to purloin in the field out by the woods. He tells with great pathos how he used to go gunning on Saturday when there was no school. And how he wandered through orchards with other boys, and knocked the song-birds off the low-hanging limbs. And how jealous the other boys were of him because he had a gun; and how they follbwed him and offered to carry the birds, and fetch them out of the water, if he would only let them fire the gun off once. And how he let Bill Murphy fire it off, because Bill could lick any boy of his size in the school, and it was an honor to be seen v. r ifh him, and to enjoy his friendship. And then he goes on to state that he was afraid to go home to his dinner for fear he would be detained to chop wood and study his Sunday-school lessons, and in that case he would not be able to smoke. At the dinner-hour it was that the turnip was enjoyed, because the apples were all gone, and he hadn’t shot any birds t to cook. When he started out in the morning he concluded he would have at least half-a-dozen quail to roast, and that is the reason he didn’t bring anything along. He didn’t even bring toast to put the quail on, for he knew he would get all the toast he wanted in after years in restaurants. And then he tells how he crept into the field, and plucked the turnips from the ground, and went out and sat on a rail-fence under the berry-tree, and pocketed all the turnips except one, which he held in his hands and peeled with his teeth, and ate while his face fairly glowed with satisfaction—and turnip. We have been there ourselves. We

have gone shooting; we have appropri ated the we have glowed with satisfaction and grinned with glee, and stretched on the ground and kicked our fee* in the air. And no boy ever enjoyed the little white turnip more than we did. But we remember, too, that, while we were lying on our back kicking our feet in the air with delight, the farmer came across the field shouting like an Indian, and swinging a piece of osage-orange in a sanguinary manner. And we suddenly got upon our feet and ran, because it was Saturday, and we didn’t have our school-day shingles on. And we remember how the farmer shouted, and how we ran and ran and ran until the farmer gave up the chase, for fear it would take him too long to return home if he pursued us further. And it was the thrilling excitement of the chase that made the turnip so good, and we shall never forget one or the other. But when a man comes forth and states that the little white purpletopped turnip is far superior to any epicurean treat extant, we think he must be a poet who is unacquainted with swell restaurants. We say nothing in disparagement of the little white turnip; but we think there are edibles before which it pales into insignificance every time. For our part, we would much prefer turkey stuffed with chestnuts, calfs head ala poulette, pate de foie gras, kidneys with champagnesauce, devilled crabs and many other things which we cannot think of just novr.—Puck.