Without, it might freeze, and without, it might storm,
          Within, there was welcome all glowing and warm. 
          And oh, but the warmth in the hostess’s eyes
          Made up for the lack of that same in the skies! 
          And fain is the poet such magic to sing: 
          Without, it was winter—­within, it was spring!

          Yea, spring—­for the charm of the house and its cheer
          Awoke in us dreams of the youth of the year;
          And safe in your graciousness folded and furled,
          How far seemed the cold and the care of the world! 
          So strong was the spell that your magic could fling,
          We knew it was winter—­we felt it was spring!

Yea, spring—­in the glow of your hearth and your board
The springtime for us was revived and restored,
And everyone blossomed, from hostess to guest,
In story and sentiment, wisdom and jest;
And even the bard like a robin must sing—­
And, sure, after that, who could doubt it was spring!

DENIS A. McCARTHY.

New Year’s Day, 1909.

Mr. McCarthy is associate editor of The Sacred Heart, Boston, and a most popular poet and lecturer.

His dear little book, Voices from Erin, adorned with the Irish harp and the American shield fastened together by a series of true-love knots, is dedicated “To all who in their love for the new land have not forgotten the old.”  There is one of these poems which is always called for whenever the author attends any public function where recitations are in order, and I do not wonder at its popularity, for it has the genuine Irish lilt and fascination: 

      “Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring time of the year,
        When the hawthorn’s whiter than the snow,
      When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble
        With their singing and their winging to and fro;
      When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant vesture on,
        And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring;
      When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance;
        Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!”

I have always wanted to write a poem about my own “Breezy” and the bunch of lilacs at the gate; but not being a poet I have had to keep wanting; but just repeating this gaily tripping tribute over and over, I suddenly seized my pencil and pad, and actually under the inspiration, imitated (at a distance) half of this first verse.

      How sweet to be at Breezy in the springtime of the year,
        With the lilacs all abloom at the gate,
      And everything so new, so jubilant, so dear,
        And every little bird is a-looking for his mate.

There, don’t you dare laugh!  Perhaps another time I may swing into the exact rhythm.