The Blue Grass Cook Book #223402

It is June in Japan, and it is June in that blessed land of the Blue Grass. The sun shines there, no doubt, right now: the corn top's. Ripe; the meadows are in bloom and along turnpike and out in the fields the song and laughter of darkies make gay the air. It is early morning. The singing of birds comes through the open windows — the chatter of blackbirds and the mid-air calls of far away meadow larks. Through those windows sleepy eyes see wood and field, with stretches of blossoming blue grass rip pling in the wind. Another half-conscious doze for an hour, another awakening, and by your bed stands a black boy in a snowy apron, his white teeth shining, and in his kindly black paws a silver goblet on a silver tray. Heavens, how it hurts to smell that mint this far away The goblet is gleaming with frost, and the mint is still drenched.