The Salad.

Two large potatoes passed through kitchen sieve,
Unwonted softness to the salad give,
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon;
Distrust the condiment, which bites too soon.
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt.
Three times the spoon with Oil of Lucca crown,
And once with vinegar procured from town—
True flavour needs it, and your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs.
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, scarce suspected, animate the whole.
And, lastly, on the flavoured compound toss
One magic spoonful of anchovy sauce.
Then, though green turtle fails, though venison's tough,
Though ham and turkey are not boiled enough,
Serenely full, the epicure may say—
“Fate cannot harm me—I have dined to-day!”

—Sydney Smith.

Listening-In.
A young radio enthusiast.

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