Dec. 15.

When winter fringes every bough With his fantastic wreath, And puts the seal of silence now Upon the leaves beneath;

When every stream in its penthouse Goes gurgling on its way, And in his gallery the mouse Nibbleth the meadow hay;

Methinks the summer still is nigh, And lurketh there below, As that same meadow mouse doth lie Snug underneath the snow.

And if perchance the chickadee Lisp a faint note anon, The snow is summer's canopy, Which she herself put on.

Rare blossoms deck the cheerful trees, And dazzling fruits depend, The north wind sighs a summer breeze, The nipping frosts to fend,

Bringing glad tidings unto me, While that I stand all ear, Of a serene eternity, That need not winter fear.

Out on the silent pond straightway The restless ice doth crack, And pond sprites merry gambols play Amid the deaf'ning rack.

Eager I press me to the vale As I had heard brave news, How nature held high festival, Which it were hard to lose.

I crack me with my neighbor ice, And sympathizing quake, As each new rent darts in a trice Across the gladsome lake.

One with the cricket in the ground, And fuel on the hearth, Resounds the rare domestic sound Along the forest path.

Fair Haven is my huge tea-urn That seethes and sings to me, And eke the crackling fagots burn,— A homebred minstrelsy.