WINTER

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 nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
                 To-who;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around 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;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

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POEMS BY VARIOUS AUTHORS

FRAIDIE-CAT

I shan’t tell you what’s his name: 
When we want to play a game,
Always thinks that he’ll be hurt,
Soil his jacket in the dirt,
Tear his trousers, spoil his hat,—­
Fraidie-Cat!  Fraidie-Cat!

Nothing of the boy in him! 
“Dasn’t” try to learn to swim;
Says a cow’ll hook; if she
Looks at him he’ll climb a tree;
“Scart” to death at bee or bat,—­
Fraidie-Cat!  Fraidie-Cat!

Claims there’re ghosts all snowy white
Wandering around at night
In the attic; wouldn’t go
There for anything, I know;
B’lieve he’d run if you said “Scat!”
Fraidie-Cat!  Fraidie-Cat!
                Clinton Scollard.

JACK IN THE PULPIT

Jack in the pulpit
 Preaches to-day,
Under the green trees
 Just over the way. 
Squirrel and song-sparrow,
 High on their perch,
Hear the sweet lily-bells
 Ringing to church. 
Come, hear what his reverence
 Rises to say,
In his low painted pulpit
 This calm Sabbath-day. 
Fair is the canopy
 Over him seen,
Penciled by Nature’s hand,
 Black, brown, and green. 
Green is his surplice,
 Green are his bands;
In his queer little pulpit
 The little priest stands.

In black and gold velvet,
 So gorgeous to see,
Comes with his bass voice
 The chorister bee. 
Green fingers playing
 Unseen on wind-lyres,
Low singing bird voices,—­
  These are his choirs. 
The violets are deacons—­
  I know by the sign
That the cups which they carry
  Are purple with wine. 
And the columbines bravely
  As sentinels stand
On the look-out with all their
  Red trumpets in hand.

Meek-faced anemones,
  Drooping and sad;
Great yellow violets,
  Smiling out glad;
Buttercups’ faces,
  Beaming and bright;
Clovers, with bonnets,—­
  Some red and some white;
Daisies, their white fingers
  Half-clasped in prayer;