"It must be a very early poem."

"It is; and this is the only copy; please don't lose it."

"Then I think you ought to take it back at once. Let me beg of you not
to risk it--" But she was gone; and I turned to my arbor and sat down
to read Sylvia's poem, which I found to be inscribed to "The Potato,"
and to run as follows:


"What on this wide earth
That is made or does by nature grow
Is more homely yet more beautiful
Than the useful Potato?

"What would this world full of people do,
Rich and poor, high and low,
Were it not for this little-thought-of
But very necessary Potato?

"True, 'tis homely to look on,
Nothing pretty even in its blow,
But it will bear acquaintance,
This useful Potato.

"For when it is cooked and opened
It's so white and mellow,
You forget it ever was homely,
This useful Potato.