Part 29 (1/2)

MIDWINTER

The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains grey and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the snowflakes as they fall On bank and briar and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snowstorm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And s.h.i.+vering stem, its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive small and low, Stands like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows; the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A m.u.f.fled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumach and the wayside thorn, And cl.u.s.tering spangles lodge and s.h.i.+ne In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree: But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts as soft and white As snowflakes on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruised part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity.

John Townsend Trowbridge.

WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET

OLD WINTER

Old Winter sad, in snow yclad Is making a doleful din; But let him howl till he crack his jowl, We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift His h.o.a.ry, haggard form, And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard Stream loose upon the blast, And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death On herb and flower and tree; And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds Bind fast, but what care we?

Thomas Noel.

THE s...o...b..LL THAT DIDN'T MELT

Jay T. Stocking

”Biff!

Flick!

Swat!

Smack!

Biff, biff!

Flick, flick!