Dolly’s Name
My Dolly’s name,—
What shall it be?
I want a pretty one,
Let’s see;—
There’s Bessie, Jessie,
Bell, and Nell;
Well, I think
I’ll call her Bell!
Cooking, in Old Times
No little girl or boy hath guessed
The process or the art
By which the early Indians dressed
And cut their meat apart;
Since neither knife, nor spoon, nor fork,
Had they to aid them in their work.
A piece of flint or sharpened shell,
The place of knife supplied,
And answered every purpose well,
To free it from the hide,—
To clear the entrails, scrape the hair,
And make the carcass clean and fair.
Then in the earth a pit was made,
To hold the fish or game,
There, stones at sides and bottom laid,
An oven it became;
No better did their wants require,
And here they lighted up a fire.
From this, when gained sufficient heat,
The glowing coals were dug,
And here the squaw laid in her meat,
With leaves encompassed snug;
With heated stones ’twas covered up
Till time to breakfast, dine, or sup.
And how, without a pot to boil,
Was taught by Indian wit;
A stone was sought, and mighty toil
A hollow made in it;
And water got its warmth alone,
From heated pebbles in it thrown.
Then other pebbles, burning hot,
Kept up the boiling heat,
And in this strangely-fashioned pot
Was placed the hunter’s meat;
Not over nice, but then, I’m sure,
The Indian was no epicure.
Fresh fish, well broiled on embers red,
The Indians often saw;
And shell-fish, from their rocky bed,
Were eaten roast or raw.
Thus the Good Spirit kindly gave
His bounteous store to Indian brave.