For she never could make it, she wouldn’t know how.”
“What is that, mother, yellow as gold?”
“Butter, my boy; not the butter of old.
In the hey-day of youth we said tit for tat,
’Twas a prophecy when we said butter for fat;
That is butter, to those whom the scoffer calls green,
To the elect it is oleomargarine.”
“What is that, mother? ’Tis the pepper of trade,
But the Lord only knows of what it is made;
Of roasted meal, of dust, and peas