When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To who; To-whit, to-who, a merry note, When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who; To-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. -Shakespeare. Bright February days have a stronger charm of hope about them than any other days in the year. One likes to pause in the mild rays of the sun, and look over the gates at the patient plow-horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think that the beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just the same; their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves on the trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! and the dark purplish brown of the plowed earth and the bare branches is beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives or rides along the valleys and over the hills! -George Eliot. *RESURGAM. All silently, and soft as sleep, Slumber, spent Earth! and dream of flowers Again the deadened bough shall bend Oh, miracle of miracles, This life that follows death! -Aldrich. *From Harper's Magazine, Copyright 1901, Harper & Bros. |