Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VERMONT OYSTER SUPPERS, by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VERMONT OYSTER SUPPERS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: There's nothing that I think of more
Last Line: Them oyster-suppered nights of yore!
Subject(s): Dinners & Dining; Food & Eating; Oysters; Vermont


THERE'S nothing that I think of more
Than oyster-supper nights of yore,
Them evenings when the church or grange
Was out for coin and chink and change,
To capture which for weeks ahead
They spread the bills that billed the spread,
Inviting every soul in town
To lay a half a dollar down.

They always picked a moonful night
So Luna might contribute light;
They planned it so that drummer Low
Would be in town and have to go;
They even set it so Jerome,
The logging boss, would be at home;
They used cold blood and cool finesse
To make them nights a hot success.

These 'foresaid points are very clear
Whilst others fade from year to year;
For instance, did the oysters "come,"
And if so, was I served to some,
Or did I get with bowl and spoon
Some water that was warmed too soon?
And did I hear my seatmate say
Her oyster must have got away?

No matter—they was sure a treat,
Them oysters that we s'posed we'd eat;
The broth we s'posed would pass our lips
A rosy recollection sips;
And how our thumbs enjoyed to crack
A Boston cracker's brittle back!
What though the feast was oyster shy
The other things was heaping high:

For cabbage salad, splashed with egg,
Was always made by Mother Gregg,
And Aunty Allard loved to bake
A Pyramid-of-Ghaza cake,
And frost it down from tip to toe
With frosting fresh as sugar snow,
And buttered biscuit, yes; it's true,
Was always sent by Sister Drew.

And there was pickles, jams and jells
As fine as Mr. Biltmore sells,
And rolltop cake and mincemeat pie,
And tarts that most put out your eye,
And doughnuts that was raised all night,
A-fried in leaf lard painted white—
Two great long tables, set with care,
And not a criscoed victual there.

The tables stacked, Odella Pope
Would always start a game of rope;
She'd jump right in and say, "I'm It,"
And play until the last one quit,
And when she slapped you on the wrist
Her mother's daughter soon got kissed—
Ah! yes; what charming hours they bore,
Them oyster-suppered nights of yore!





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