The month was June, the day was hot,
  And Philip had an orange got. 
  The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright,
  Refreshing to the smell and sight;
  Not of that puny size which calls
  Poor customers to common stalls,
  But large and massy, full of juice,
  As any Lima can produce. 
  The liquor would, if squeezed out,
  Have fill’d a tumbler thereabout—­

    The happy boy, with greedy eyes,
  Surveys and re-surveys his prize. 
  He turns it round, and longs to drain,
  And with the juice his lips to stain. 
  His throat and lips were parch’d with heat;
  The orange seem’d to cry, Come eat. 
  He from his pocket draws a knife—­
  When in his thoughts there rose a strife,
  Which folks experience when they wish,
  Yet scruple to begin a dish,
  And by their hesitation own
  It is too good to eat alone. 
  But appetite o’er indecision
  Prevails, and Philip makes incision. 
  The melting fruit in quarters came—­
  Just then there passed by a dame—­
  One of the poorer sort she seem’d,
  As by her garb you would have deem’d—­
  Who in her toil-worn arms did hold
  A sickly infant ten months old;
  That from a fever, caught in spring,
  Was slowly then recovering. 
  The child, attracted by the view
  Of that fair orange, feebly threw
  A languid look—­perhaps the smell
  Convinc’d it that there sure must dwell
  A corresponding sweetness there,
  Where lodg’d a scent so good and rare—­
  Perhaps the smell the fruit did give
  Felt healing and restorative—­
  For never had the child been grac’d
  To know such dainties by their taste.

    When Philip saw the infant crave,
  He straitway to the mother gave
  His quarter’d orange; nor would stay
  To hear her thanks, but tript away. 
  Then to the next clear spring he ran
  To quench his drought, a happy man!

THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER

  Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
    With ease are written at the top;
  When those two happy words are penn’d,
    A youthful writer oft will stop,

  And bite his pen, and lift his eyes,
    As if he thinks to find in air
  The wish’d-for following words, or tries
    To fix his thoughts by fixed stare.

  But haply all in vain—­the next
    Two words may be so long before
  They’ll come, the writer, sore perplext,
    Gives in despair the matter o’er;

  And when maturer age he sees
    With ready pen so swift inditing,
  With envy he beholds the ease
    Of long-accustom’d letter-writing.

  Courage, young friend; the time may be,
    When you attain maturer age,
  Some young as you are now may see
    You with like ease glide down a page.

  Ev’n then when you, to years a debtor,
    In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
  The welcom’st words in all your letter
    May be those two kind words at top.