WHEN WINTER AND SPRING MET
Reading edition
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 hoary, 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 SNOWBALL THAT DIDN’T MELT
Jay T. Stocking
“Biff! Flick! Swat! Smack! Biff, biff! Flick, flick! Swat, swat! Smack, smack!”
It was a fine day in midwinter. The sun was just warm and bright enough to make the snow pack easily. The boys in the neighbourhood were having the liveliest kind of a snowball fight. So that is why there was this—
“Biff! Flick! Swat! Smack!”
And this—
“Biff, biff! Flick, flick! Swat, swat! Smack, smack!”
Everything ends some time. So this snowball fight did. One side or the other won,—I have forgotten which. The boys at the little brown-shingled house, where the fight took place, became very busy making balls for the next day’s battle. You could hear the “pat—pat, pat—pat,” as they rounded and packed the snowballs in their cold, red hands.
When they became quite satisfied that they had enough on hand for a lively battle they piled the balls up in a neat pyramid just under the edge of the veranda and went off to look for something new to do.
Then the snowballs fell to talking,—if it is true that snowballs talk.
“I wonder what they are going to do with us,” said the top one. “I know what I’d like to do. I’d like to hit the nose of that rough, freckle-faced boy who hit the nose of the boy who made me.”
“I know what I’d like,” said the second. “I’d like to go right through the window of Old Grampy’s house. Wouldn’t he sputter!”
“Oh! What’s the fun in teasing a poor old man?” said another. “I’ll tell you what I’d like. I’d like to hit the minister right in the middle of the back and see what he would do.”
“Hit the minister in the back!” said a lively-looking chap down in the middle of the pile. “Be a sport! I’d like to knock the policeman’s hat off and see him chase the boy that threw me. That would be fun.”
It was, you see, a very bold and mischievous lot of balls, if one may judge from their big talk. And so it was probably well for the peace of the neighbourhood that the evening had scarcely fallen when, through a sudden change in the weather, snow, too, began to fall. All night long the snow fell, thicker and faster, thicker and faster. The wind rose and piled it in stacks. The house was banked to the windows, the veranda was heaped up high. The snowballs were buried deep,—so deep that the boys forgot them. It was spring before the thick covering of snow was melted enough so that they could see the light of day.
It was a long time after this, when there came a day which meant much for at least one of that heap of snowballs.
The sun was bright and hot; the grass was beginning to show green. The snow had all gone except in a few places on the cold side of the houses and under veranda edges. The snowballs were still piled neatly in the pyramid but they looked as if they might tumble down almost any minute. Although it was cool in their shady spot, every one of them was perspiring and several of them looked thin and pale. I fancy they had felt the heat, for all their lives they had been accustomed to a cooler climate.
As they were busy mopping their brows and sighing for cooler weather they heard a sound, between a sigh and a faint moan. They heard it again and again. It was above their heads, out on the lawn, and not far away. It seemed to be in or around a shrub or bush, with a tall slender stem and a branching top.
“What’s that?” asked several of the balls at once.
They stopped talking, and sighing, and listened. And as they did so, they could hear words very distinctly, though they were not nearly so loud as a whisper.
“Snowball, Snowball, come up here! My head is hot, my throat feels queer: I’m going to faint, I surely fear. Won’t some cool snowball come up here?”
“Who are you?” asked Snowball Number One, who sat at the tiptop of the pile. “Where are you and what is your name?”
“I’m Life-of-the-Bush, In the bush I dwell; I know not my name, And so I can’t tell.”
“I can’t see you,” said Number One, as he looked intently up at the branches.
“You can’t?” said the Bush, “Then you must be blind. I’m right up here,— But never mind.”
The voice trailed off weakly; then they heard it again:
“I’m going to faint, I really fear. Won’t some kind snowball come up here?”
“But you are up so high. How can one get there? We have neither a ladder nor wings and we do not know how to climb.” Number One did most of the talking; he was nearest the bush.
“I’ll tell you how,” said Life-of-the-Bush, stopping his rhyme and talking plainly and simply and sensibly. “Just roll down the slope on the lawn to the foot of this bush. Make yourself as small as small can be, creep down into the ground, and take an elevator, which is always running, and you will come directly up to me.” The talking ceased, and the snowballs began to look at each other rather uneasily.
“I can’t go,” said Number Two, who was in the second row from the top. “I always tan terribly in the sun. It’s a long way down to the foot of the bush, and I should be brown as a berry before I got half way.”
“I can’t go, either,” said Number Three, by his side. “I don’t tan, but I freckle, and freckles look dreadful on my fair complexion.”
“I’m sorry I can’t go,” said Number Four, from his place in the corner of the third row. “But I feel the heat terribly. My clothes are all sticking to me now.”
“It’s simply out of the question for me,” said a big fat snowball down near the ground. “I know I’d melt before I got there. There isn’t much left of me now.”
Number One was one of the fairest snowballs of the bunch, but he was not afraid of freckles or tan. He was also one of the smallest of the lot. He looked down to the foot of the bush. It seemed a long way. The sun was certainly burning hot. He was not at all sure that he would live long enough in that sun to reach the bush. But some one should keep Life-of-the-Bush from fainting and he would try.
He turned a quick somersault off the pile down to the ground.
At just that moment something disturbed the whole pile and every ball in it tumbled down and out into the sun.
As soon as Number One touched the ground, he began to roll over, and over, and over, as fast as ever he could. It didn’t take him more than a minute to reach the foot of the bush. He remembered what Life-of-the-Bush had said, made himself just as small as small could be, crept down into the ground close to the stem and took the elevator, which seemed to be running all the time.
It took quite a while to go up, but finally the elevator paused just long enough for him to get out. He found himself in a cool, rambling house, that seemed to be almost all long, narrow halls. They ran this way and that way and every—which—way. At one end of each hall, where the buds were opening, there were windows with green shades. Everything was very clean and sweet. Right in the middle of the house he found Life-of-the-Bush. He gave her a drink of water, which he had carried in his water-proof pocket and not only kept her from fainting but made her as lively and well and happy as ever.
Life-of-the-Bush thanked the snowball a thousand times and gave him the freedom of her beautiful house.
“Now that you are here,” she said, “perhaps you will stay a while and help me build my house a little bigger. I must build leaves, and buds and branches and bark. I need your help.”
The snowball stayed and helped. He found it very exciting work. He worked all day and all night, ran here and there, and never stopped for meals. He packed buds and unfolded them; he pushed out the leaves and built out the ends of branches; he made bark, pressed it till it was hard and coloured it grey.
Day after day he worked at his tasks as if they gave him the greatest joy in the world. But now and then Life-of-the-Bush saw him gazing out of the window, as if he were a bit homesick, to get out of doors again.
“Stay with me a little longer,” she said, “to help me build my blossoms, and then I will send you out of doors on a beautiful errand to stay as long as your heart desires.”
So Snowball stayed and helped Life-of-the-Bush build her blossoms. Basket after basket of white stuff, as white as snowflakes but ever so much smaller, he carried out to the ends of the branches. Jar after jar of perfume he carried, too, until the blossoms were quite complete.
Then one evening—it was the last of May, or early June—Life-of-the-Bush called him.
“To-morrow,” she said, “there is to be a great Garden Festival. A prize is to be given for the most original and beautiful blossom. All the flowers of the season will be here in the garden. You have been a good friend and a faithful helper. For reward, you may go to the Festival and stay as long as your heart desires.”
“But how shall I go?” queried the snowball.
“Right out through the end of one of my branches,” said Life-of-the-Bush.
“But I shall fall off,” said the snowball.
“I’ll tie you on with a stout string, so that not even the wind can blow you off.”
“But it’s hot outside. I shall melt.”
“O, no. I’ve changed you so the hottest sun cannot melt you.”
“But how can I get out through the end of the branch?” asked the snowball, who could not get it through his head that he could really get out to the end of a branch and stay there all day and not fall off or melt.
“Make yourself very small, just as small as when you came up to me and you can go out as easily as you run along these halls,” said Life-of-the-Bush.
The snowball became quite excited. The Festival was to begin very early in the morning. Besides he wanted to see, if he could, what had become of the other snowballs. So he decided that he would go out on the branch that night, while it was dark, and be there for the whole day’s fun.
So he made himself very small, ran along the hall, crept out through a tiny green door and found himself tied securely to a swaying branch. The air was cool and sweet. He didn’t melt, as he half-feared he might, and he didn’t fall off. He looked around. Yes, this was the very bush he had seen before, but it was greener now. Morning came and the great Festival. The garden was full of flowers and folks.
There were lilacs and lilies of shades manifold There were daisies, and daffodils, yellow as gold. There were pansies, and peonies, red, white and pink, And every such flower of which you can think. You ought to have heard the “Ah’s!” and the “Oh’s!” Of all the fine people in all their fine clothes. You ought to have seen that wonderful sight, For no rhyme of mine can describe it half right.
People went from bush to bush and from flower to flower. They could not for the life of them tell which blossom they thought most beautiful and original.
The judges wandered about uncertainly with the ribbons in their pockets not knowing to what plant or bush to tie them.
The snowball grew very much interested, not to say excited, to see what blossom would finally win the prize.
He noticed that groups of people continually stopped before the bush on which he hung. Apparently they admired it. He soon discovered that they were looking at him and was quite embarrassed.
“Look!” he kept hearing them say. “See this snowball,—and it doesn’t melt! Why, it’s growing on the bush; it’s a blossom!” That was the first that he knew that Life-of-the-Bush had changed him from a snowball into a flower snowball. Of course he became very happy and twice as excited.
Indeed, he could hardly breathe from excitement, when the judges came over, in a group, to where he grew. They looked at him and at the bush. Apparently they had never seen blossoms of this kind before.
“I never saw such a big, round, white blossom before,” he heard one of them say, as he drew a blue ribbon from his pocket and tied it to the stem on which he hung. He knew and soon, of course, everybody knew that the “Snowball Bush” had won the prize. His heart beat so fast that he thought he was growing red in the face. Perhaps he was melting! But he wasn’t, for he heard a girl say just then, as she passed, “How white and cool it looks!”
Snowball Number One had often wondered what had happened to his friends, the other snowballs. One reason why he had been anxious to get out of the bush was to find out, if he could, what had become of them all. But the doings of the day had driven all thought of them out of his busy head.
Now, as the people began to leave the garden, and excitement grew less, he remembered and looked about him. Here was the yard in which the boys made him. There was the very place under the edge of the veranda where he had spent the winter and where they had all stood that spring morning when Life-of-the-Bush called to them. There was the place, almost under him, where he knew they had all tumbled down the moment he left them. But not a trace of a snowball could be seen.
Of course not! They had all disappeared long ago, the very day, indeed, in which they tumbled down. Before noon the hot sun had melted them, every one, and carried them away, tan and freckles and all, and no one ever heard of them again.
Number One, who ran right out into the sun, was the only snowball that didn’t melt.
GAU-WI-DI-NE AND GO-HAY, WINTER AND SPRING
(Iroquois Legend)
The snow mountain lifted its head close to the sky; the clouds wrapped around it their floating drifts which held the winter’s hail and snowfalls, and with scorn it defied the sunlight which crept over its height, slow and shivering on its way to the valleys.
Close at the foot of the mountain, an old man had built him a lodge “for a time,” said he, as he packed it around with great blocks of ice. Within he stored piles of wood and corn and dried meat and fish. No person, animal, nor bird could enter this lodge, only North Wind, the only friend the old man had. Whenever strong and lusty North Wind passed the lodge he would scream “ugh-e-e-e, ugh-e-e-e,” as with a blast of his blusterings he passed over the earth.
But North Wind came only seldom to the lodge. He was too busy searching the corners of the earth and driving the snow and the hail, but when he had wandered far and was in need of advice, he would visit the lodge to smoke and counsel with the old man about the next snowfall, before journeying to his home in the north sky; and they would sit by the fire which blazed and glowed yet could not warm them.
The old man’s bushy whiskers were heavy with the icicles which clung to them, and when the blazing fire flared its lights, illuminating them with the warm hues of the summer sunset, he would rave as he struck them down, and glare with rage as they fell snapping and crackling at his feet.
One night, as together they sat smoking and dozing before the fire, a strange feeling of fear came over them, the air seemed growing warmer and the ice began to melt. Said North Wind:
“I wonder what warm thing is coming, the snow seems vanishing and sinking lower in the earth.” But the old man cared not, and was silent. He knew his lodge was strong, and he chuckled with scorn as he bade North Wind abandon his fears and depart for his home. But North Wind went drifting the fast-falling snow higher on the mountain until it groaned under its heavy burden, and scolding and blasting, his voice gradually died away. Still the old man remained silent and moved not, but, lost in thought, sat looking into the fire, when there came a loud knock at his door. “Some foolish breath of North Wind is wandering,” thought he, and he heeded it not.
Again came the rapping, but swifter and louder, and a pleading voice begged to come in.
Still the old man remained silent, and, drawing nearer to the fire, quieted himself for sleep; but the rapping continued, louder, fiercer, and increased his anger. “Who dares approach the door of my lodge?” he shrieked. “You are not North Wind, who alone can enter here. Begone! no refuge here for trifling winds; go back to your home in the sky.” But, as he spoke, the strong bar securing the door fell from its fastening, the door swung open and a stalwart young warrior stood before him shaking the snow from his shoulders as he noiselessly closed the door.
Safe within the lodge, the warrior heeded not the old man’s anger, but with a cheerful greeting drew close to the fire, extending his hands to its ruddy blaze, when a glow as of summer illumined the lodge. But the kindly greeting and the glowing light served only to incense the old man, and rising in rage, he ordered the warrior to depart.
“Go!” he exclaimed. “I know you not. You have entered my lodge and you bring a strange light. Why have you forced my lodge door? You are young, and youth has no need of my fire. When I enter my lodge, all the earth sleeps. You are strong, with the glow of sunshine on your face. Long ago I buried the sunshine beneath the snowdrifts. Go! you have no place here.
“Your eyes bear the gleam of the summer stars. North Wind blew out the summer star-lights moons ago. Your eyes dazzle my lodge, your breath does not smoke in chill vapour, but comes from your lips soft and warm; it will melt my lodge. You have no place here.
“Your hair so soft and fine, streaming back like the night shades, will weave my lodge into tangles. You have no place here.
“Your shoulders are bare and white as the snowdrifts. You have no furs to cover them; depart from my lodge. See, as you sit by my fire, how it draws away from you. Depart, I say, from my lodge!”
But the young warrior only smiled, and asked that he might remain to fill his pipe; and they sat down by the fire. Then the old man became garrulous and began to boast of his great powers.
“I am powerful and strong,” said he. “I send North Wind to blow all over the earth and its waters stop to listen to his voice as he freezes them fast asleep. When I touch the sky the snow hurries down and the hunters hide by their lodge fires; the birds fly scared, and the animals creep to their caves. When I lay my hand on the land, I harden it still as the rocks; nothing can forbid me nor loosen my fetters. You, young warrior, though you shine like the Sun, you have no power. Go! I give you a chance to escape me, but I could blow my breath and fold around you a mist which would turn you to ice forever!
“I am not a friend to the Sun, who grows pale and cold and flees to the Southland when I come; yet I see his glance in your face, where no winter shadows hide. My North Wind will soon return; he hates the summer and will bind fast its hands. You fear me not, and smile because you know me not. Young man, listen. I am Gau-wi-di-ne, Winter! Now fear me and depart. Pass from my lodge and go out to the wind.”
But the young warrior moved not; he only smiled as he refilled the pipe for the trembling old man, saying, “Here, take your pipe; it will soothe you and make you stronger for a little while longer;” and he packed the o-yan-kwa[A] deep and hard in the pipe.
Said the warrior, “Now you must smoke for me, smoke for Youth and Spring! I fear not your boasting; you are aged and slow while I am young and strong. I hear the voice of South Wind. Your North Wind hears, and Spirit of the Winds is hurrying him back to his home. Wrap you up warm while yet the snowdrifts cover the earth path, and flee to your lodge in the north sky. I am here now, and you shall know me. I, too, am powerful!
“When I lift my hand, the sky opens wide and I waken the sleeping Sun, which follows me warm and glad. I touch the earth and it grows soft and gentle, and breathes strong and swift as my South Wind ploughs under the snows to loosen your grasp. The trees in the forest welcome my voice and send out their buds to my hand. When my breezes blow my long hair to the clouds, they send down gentle showers that whisper to the grasses to grow.
“I came not to tarry long in my peace talk with you, but to smoke with you and warn you that the sun is waiting for me to open its door. You and the North Wind have built your lodge strong, but each wind, the North and the East, and the West, and the South, has its time for the earth. Now South Wind is calling me; return you to your big lodge in the sky. Travel quick on your way that you may not fall in the path of the Sun. See! It is now sending down its arrows broad and strong!”
The old man saw and trembled. He seemed fading smaller, and grown too weak to speak, could only whisper, “Young warrior, who are you?”
In a voice that breathed soft as the breath of wild blossoms, he answered: “I am Go-hay, Spring! I have come to rule, and my lodge now covers the earth! I have talked to your mountain and it has heard; I have called the South Wind and it is near; the Sun is awake from its winter sleep and summons me quick and loud. Your North Wind has fled to his north sky; you are late in following. You have lingered too long over your peace pipe and its smoke now floats far away. Haste while yet there is time that you may lose not your trail.”
And Go-hay began singing the Sun song as he opened the door of the lodge. Hovering above it was a great bird, whose wings seemed blown by a strong wind, and while Go-hay continued to sing, it flew down to the lodge and folding Gau-wi-di-ne to its breast, slowly winged away to the north, and when the Sun lifted its head in the east it beheld the bird disappearing behind the far-away sky. The Sun glanced down where Gau-wi-di-ne had built his lodge, whose fire had burned but could not warm, and a bed of young blossoms lifted their heads to the touch of its beams.
Where the wood and the corn and the dried meat and fish had been heaped, a young tree was leafing, and a blue bird was trying its wings for a nest. And the great ice mountain had melted to a swift running river which sped through the valley bearing its message of the springtime.
Gau-wi-di-ne had passed his time, and Go-hay reigned over the earth!
NAMING THE WINDS
(Indian Legend)
Ga-oh the great master of the winds decided to choose his helpers from the animals of the earth. He blew a strong blast that shook the rocks and hills and when his reverberating call had ceased its thunderous echoes he opened the north gate wide across the sky and called Ya-o-gah, the Bear.
Lumbering over the mountains as he pushed them from his path, Ya-o-gah, the bulky bear, who had battled the boisterous winds as he came, took his place at Ga-oh’s gate and waited the mission of his call. Said Ga-oh, “Ya-o-gah, you are strong; you can freeze the waters with your cold breath; in your broad arms you can carry the wild tempests, and clasp the whole earth when I bid you destroy. I will place you in my far North, there to watch the herd of my winter winds when I loose them in the sky. You shall be North Wind. Enter your home.” And the bear lowered his head for the leash with which Ga-oh bound him, and submissively took his place in the north sky.
In a gentler voice Ga-oh called Ne-o-ga, the Fawn, and a soft breeze as of the summer crept over the sky; the air grew fragrant with the odour of flowers, and there were voices as of babbling brooks telling the secrets of the summer to the tune of birds, as Ne-o-ga came proudly lifting her head.
Said Ga-oh, “You walk with the summer sun, and know all its paths; you are gentle, and kind as the sunbeam, and will rule my flock of the summer winds in peace. You shall be the South Wind. Bend your head while I leash you to the sky, for you are swift, and might return from me to the earth.” And the gentle Fawn followed Ga-oh to his great gate which opens the south sky.
Again Ga-oh trumpeted a shrill blast, and all the sky seemed threatening; an ugly darkness crept into the clouds that sent them whirling in circles of confusion. A quarrelsome, shrieking voice snarled through the air, and with a sound as of great claws tearing the heavens into rifts, Da-jo-ji, the Panther, sprang to the gate.
Said Ga-oh, “You are ugly, and fierce, and can fight the strong storms; you can climb the high mountains, and tear down the forests; you can carry the whirlwind on your strong back, and toss the great sea waves high in the air, and snarl at the tempests if they stray from my gate. You shall be the West Wind. Go to the west sky, where even the Sun will hurry to hide when you howl your warning to the night.” And Da-jo-ji, dragging his leash as he stealthily crept along, followed Ga-oh to the furthermost west sky.
Yet Ga-oh rested not. The earth was flat, and in each of its four corners he must have an assistant. One corner yet remained, and again Ga-oh’s strong blast shook the earth. And there arose a moan like the calling of a lost mate; the sky shivered in a cold rain; the whole earth clouded in mist; a crackling sound as of great horns crashing through the forest trees dinned the air, and O-yan-do-ne, the Moose, stood stamping his hoofs at the gate.
Said Ga-oh, as he strung a strong leash around his neck, “Your breath blows the mist, and can lead the cold rains; your horns spread wide, and can push back the forests to widen the path for my storms as with your swift hoofs you race with my winds. You shall be the East Wind, and blow your breath to chill the young clouds as they float through the sky.” Said Ga-oh as he led him to the east sky, “Here you shall dwell forevermore.”
Thus, with his assistants, does Ga-oh control his storms. And although he must ever remain in his sky lodge, his will is supreme, and his faithful assistants will obey!
NORTH WIND’S FROLIC
In a large, airy castle on the borders of a country far away, lived the King of the Winds with his four children, North Wind, South Wind, East Wind, and West Wind. They were a happy family, for the four children were always making merry with the old Wind King.
North Wind, however, was a boisterous fellow, forever causing disorder even in their play.
One summer day North Wind said that he was going out of the castle for a frolic.
“Go,” called out the King, “but be careful, North Wind, what you do. Your pranks are all very well while you are in the castle here, but out in the world they may do great harm.”
“Woo—oo—oo——,” was all the King heard in answer, and away blustered North Wind out of the castle to the garden near by.
The roses and lilies were just in bloom, and the ripe peaches hung on the trees ready to be picked.
“Woo—oo—oo——,” cried the North Wind in his loudest voice, and in a moment the rose petals were scattered all over the ground, the lilies were broken from their stems, and the ripe peaches dropped down right into the mud.
In the fields he caused even greater damage. He broke the wheat stems, threw the unripe apples about. He tore the leaves from their branches and tossed them about in the air in all directions. Indeed, one old tree he completely uprooted.
The people could stand it no longer. They went to the King of the Winds, who, in his castle had control over the coming and going of all the Winds, and told him what the wicked North Wind had done and how the garden and fields had suffered from the misery he had caused them.
“I will summon North Wind,” said his father. “He shall answer for all this.”
When North Wind appeared, the King repeated what the people had said. “Is this true, North Wind?” he asked.
North Wind could not deny it, for the devastated garden and fields lay before every one’s eyes.
“Why did you do it?” asked the King.
“Oh,” answered North Wind, “I didn’t mean it wickedly. I wanted to play with the roses and the lilies and the peaches—and all the rest. I didn’t think I would do them any harm.”
“I see,” said the King. “If you are such a clumsy fellow, then I do not dare to let you out for a frolic again. I must keep you a prisoner in the castle the whole summer. In the winter, when there are no more flowers and fruit, you may go out and be as boisterous as you like. I see you are fit only for the time of ice and snow and not for flowers and fruit.”
THE MONTHS: A PAGEANT
Christina Rossetti
Boys Girls
January February
March April
July May
August June
October September
December November
Robin Redbreast; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale and Nestlings; various Flowers, Fruits, etc.
SCENE:—A Cottage with its grounds.
(A room in a large comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing. January discovered seated by the fire.)
January
Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, Dim the day until the cold dark night.
(Stirs the fire)
Crackle, sparkle, faggot; embers glow: Some one may be plodding through the snow Longing for a light, For the light that you and I can show. If no one else should come, Here Robin Redbreast’s welcome to a crumb, And never troublesome: Robin, why don’t you come and fetch your crumb? Here’s butter for my hunch of bread, And sugar for your crumb; Here’s room upon the hearthrug, If you’ll only come. In your scarlet waistcoat, With your keen bright eye, Where are you loitering? Wings were made to fly! Make haste to breakfast, Come and fetch your crumb, For I’m as glad to see you As you are glad to come.
(Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in, hop about the floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand.)
Good-morrow, sister.
February
Brother, joy to you! I’ve brought some snowdrops; only just a few, But quite enough to prove the world awake, Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew And for the pale sun’s sake.
(She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retires into the background. While February stands arranging the remaining snowdrops in a glass of water on the window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heard outside. She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb with other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her.)
O you, you little wonder, come—come in, You wonderful, you woolly soft white lamb: You panting mother ewe, come too, And lead that tottering twin Safe in: Bring all your bleating kith and kin, Except the horny ram.
(February opens a second door in the background, and the little flock files through into a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight.)
The lambkin tottering in its walk With just a fleece to wear; The snowdrop drooping on its stalk So slender,— Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair, Braving the cold for our delight, Both white Both tender.
(A rattling of doors and windows; branches seen without, tossing violently to and fro.)
How the doors rattle, and the branches sway! Here brother March comes whirling on his way With winds that eddy and sing:—
(She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and discloses March hastening up, both hands full of violets and anemones.)
Come, show me what you bring; For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, And must away.
March
(Stopping short on the threshold)
I blow an arouse Through the world’s wide house To quicken the torpid earth; Grappling I fling Each feeble thing, But bring strong life to the birth. I wrestle and frown, And topple down; I wrench, I rend, I uproot; Yet the violet Is born where I set The sole of my flying foot.
(Hands violet and anemones to February, who retires into the background.)
And in my wake Frail wind-flowers quake, And the catkins promise fruit. I drive ocean ashore With rush and roar, And he cannot say me nay: My harpstrings all Are the forests tall, Making music when I play.
(Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song.)
April
(Outside)
Pretty little three Sparrows in a tree, Light upon the wing; Though you cannot sing You can chirp of Spring: Chirp of Spring to me, Sparrows, from your tree. Never mind the showers, Chirp about the flowers While you build a nest: Straws from east and west, Feathers from your breast, Make the snuggest bowers In a world of flowers.
(Appearing at the open door)
Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly, Of all the flying months you’re the most flying.
March
You’re hope and sweetness, April.
April
I’ve a rainbow in my showers And a lapful of flowers, And these dear nestlings aged three hours; And here’s their mother sitting; Their father’s merely flitting To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.
(As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them. May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss. April starts and looks round.)
Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye.
May
That’s just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh: Your sorrow’s half in fun, Begun and done And turned to joy while twenty seconds run. I’ve gathered flowers all as I came along, At every step a flower Fed by your last bright shower,—
(She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who strolls away through the garden.)
And gathering flowers I listened to the song Of every bird in bower. Here are my buds of lily and rose, And here’s my namesake blossom may; And from a watery spot See here forget-me-not, With all that blows To-day.
(June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards May, who, seeing her, exclaims:)
Surely you’re come too early, sister June.
June
Indeed I feel as if I came too soon To round your young May moon And set the world a-gasping at my noon. Yet come I must. So here are strawberries Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please; And here are full-blown roses by the score, More roses, and yet more.
(May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds. June seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum.)
Or if I’m lulled by note of bird and bee, Or lulled by noontide’s silence deep, I need but nestle down beneath my tree And drop asleep.
(June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who, behind the scenes, is heard, half singing, half calling.)
July
(Behind the scenes)
Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled, Which will you take? yellow, blue, speckled! Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow, Each in its way has not a fellow.
(Enter July, a basket of many-coloured irises slung upon his shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes.)
June
What, here already?
July
Nay, my tryst is kept; The longest day slipped by you while you slept. I’ve brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,
(Hands her the plate)
Not flowers but peaches, gathered where the bees, As downy, bask and boom In sunshine and in gloom of trees. But get you in, a storm is at my heels; The whirlwind whistles and wheels, Lightning flashes and thunder peals, Flying and following hard upon my heels.
(June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbour)
The roar of a storm sweeps up From the east to the lurid west, The darkening sky, like a cup, Is filled with rain to the brink; The sky is purple and fire, Blackness and noise and unrest; The earth, parched with desire Opens her mouth to drink. Have done with thunder and fire, O sky with the rainbow crest; O earth, have done with desire, Drink, and drink deep, and rest.
(Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of grain.)
Hail, brother August, flushed and warm And scathless from my storm, Your hands are full of corn, I see, As full as hands can be: And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm In their recovered calm, And that they owe to me.
(July retires into a shrubbery)
August
Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, Barley bows a graceful head, Short and small shoots up canary, Each of these is some one’s bread; Bread for man or bread for beast, Or, at very least, A bird’s savoury feast.
(August descries September toiling across the lawn)
My harvest home is ended; and I spy September drawing nigh, With the first thought of Autumn in her eye, And the first sigh Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.
(September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit)
September
Unload me, brother. I have brought a few Plums and these pears for you, A dozen kinds of apples, one or two Melons, some figs all bursting through Their skins, and pearled with dew These damsons violet-blue.
(While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.)
My song is half a sigh Because my green leaves die; Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying; And well may Autumn sigh, And well may I Who watch the sere leaves flying.
(October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long ripe hop-bine trailing after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his buttonhole.)
October
Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over, Even if the year has done with corn and clover, With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it’s true Some leaves remain and some flowers too. For me and you. Now see my crops:
(Offering his produce to September)
I’ve brought you nuts and hops; And when the leaf drops, why, the walnut drops.
(October wreathes the hop-bine about September’s neck, and gives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but without shutting the door. She steps into the background; he advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast.)
Crack your first nut and light your first fire, Roast your first chestnut crisp on the bar; Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher, Logs are cheery as sun or as star, Logs we can find wherever we are. Spring one soft day will open the leaves, Spring one bright day will lure back the flowers; Never fancy my whistling wind grieves, Never fancy I’ve tears in my showers: Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours!
(Sees November approaching)
Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim And grim With dismal ways. What cheer, November?
November
(Entering and shutting the door)
Nought have I to bring, Tramping a-chill and shivering, Except these pine cones for a blaze,— Except a fog which follows, And stuffs up all the hollows,— Except a hoar frost here and there,— Except some shooting stars Which dart their luminous cars Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.
(October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background, while November throws her pine cones on the fire, and sits down listlessly.)
The earth lies asleep, grown tired Of all that’s high or deep; There’s nought desired and nought required Save a sleep. I rock the cradle of the earth, I lull her with a sigh; And know that she will wake to mirth By and by.
(Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door. He knocks.)
Ah, here’s my youngest brother come at last:
(Calls out without rising.)
Come in, December.
(He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc.)
Come, and shut the door, For now it’s snowing fast; It snows, and will snow more and more; Don’t let it drift in on the floor. But you, you’re all aglow; how can you be Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold?
December
Nay, no closed doors for me, But open doors and open hearts and glee To welcome young and old. Dimmest and brightest month am I; My short days end, my lengthening days begin; What matters more or less sun in the sky, When all is sun within?
(He begins making a wreath as he sings)
Ivy and privet dark as night, I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show, And holly for a beauty and delight, And milky mistletoe. While high above them all I set Yew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale; Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet May keep, so sweet and frail; May keep each merry singing bird, Of all her happy birds that singing build: For I’ve a carol which some shepherds heard Once in a wintry field.
(While December concludes his song all the other Months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The Twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the curtain falls.) (Abridged.)
PRINCE WINTER
Carl Ewald
The Prince of Winter sat on the mountains: an old man with white hair and beard. His naked breast was shaggy, shaggy his legs and hands. He looked strong and wild with cold stern eyes.
But he was not angry as when Spring drove him from the valley and when Autumn did not go quickly enough. He looked out over the kingdom calmly for he knew that it was his. And, when he found anything dead or empty or desolate, he plucked at his great white beard and gave a harsh and satisfied laugh.
But all that lived in the land was struck with terror when it looked into his cold eyes.
The trees shook in their thick bark, and the bushes struck their branches together in consternation. The mouse became quite snow-blind, when she peeped outside the door; the stag looked mournfully over the white meadow.
“My muzzle can still break thro’ the ice, when I drink,” he said. “I can still scrape the snow to one side and find a tuft of grass. But, if things go on like this for another week, then it’s all up with me.”
The crow and the chaffinch and the sparrow and the tit had quite lost their voices. They thought of the other birds, who had departed in time, and they who remained knew not where to turn in their distress. At last they set out in a row to carry their humble greeting to the new lord of the land.
“Here come your birds, O mightiest of all Princes!” said the crow and stood and marked time in the white snow. “The others left the country as soon as you announced your coming, but we have remained to submit us to your sway. Now be a gracious lord to us and grant us food.”
“We bow before Your Highness!” said the chaffinch.
“We have so longed for you,” said the tit, and he put his head on one side.
And the sparrow said the same as the others, in a tone of deep respect.
But the Prince of Winter laughed at them disdainfully.
“Ha, you time-serving birds! In Summer’s time you amused yourselves merrily, in Autumn’s, you ate yourselves stout and fat; and as soon as Spring strikes up you will dance to his piping like the others. I hate you and your screaming and squalling and the trees you hop about in. You are all here to defy me and I shall do for you if I can.” Then he rose in all his strength.
“I have my own birds and now you shall see them.”
He clapped his hands and sang:
“Wee snow-birds, white snow-birds, White snow-birds, wee snow-birds, Through fields skim along! To jubilant Spring I grudge music of no birds, To Summer, no song. “Come, Winter’s mute messengers, Swift birds and slow birds, White snow-birds, wee snow-birds, Till the valley be soft as down for your nestling Of numberless ice-eggs by frosty rims spanned! Now rushing, now resting, White snow-birds, wee snow-birds, Skim soft thro’ the land!”
And Winter’s birds came.
Suddenly, it darkened, and the air became full of little black specks, which descended and turned into great white snow-flakes.
They fell over the ground in an endless multitude. There was now not a blade of grass, nor yet a stone to be seen: everything was smooth and soft and white. Only the trees stood out high in the air and the river flowed black thro’ the meadow.
“I know how to crush you,” said the Prince of Winter.
And, when evening came, he told the wind to go down. Then the waves became small and still, Winter stared at them with his cold eyes, and the ice built its bridge from bank to bank. In vain the waves tried to hum Spring’s song. There was no strength in their voices.
Next morning there was nothing left to the river but a narrow channel; and, when one more night had passed, the bridge was finished. Again the Prince of Winter called for his white birds; and soon the carpet was drawn over the river till it was no longer possible to see where land began or water ended.
But the trees stood boldly out of the deep snow, the firs had kept all their leaves and were so green that it was quite shocking to behold. Wherever they stood, they were a protection against the frost and a shelter against the snow; and the chaffinch and the other small birds found refuge under their roofs.
The Prince of Winter looked at them angrily.
“If I could but break you!” he said. “You stand in the midst of my kingdom keeping guard for Summer and you give shelter to the birds who disturb the peace of my land. If only I had snow enough to bury you!”
But the trees stood strong under Winter’s wrath and waved their long branches.
“You have taken from us what you can,” they said. “Farther than that you cannot go. We will wait calmly for better times.”
When they had said this Winter suddenly set eyes upon tiny little buds round about the twigs. He saw the little brown mice trip out for a run in the snow and disappear again into their snug parlours before his eyes. He heard the hedgehog snoring in the hedge; and the crows kept on screaming in his ears. Through his own ice he saw the noses of the frogs stick up from the bottom of the pond.
“Am I the master or not?” he shouted. He tore at his beard with both hands.
He heard the anemones breathe peacefully and lightly in the mould; he heard thousands of grubs bore deep into the wood of the trees as cheerfully as though Summer were in the land. He saw the bees crawl about in their busy hive and share the honey they had collected in summer, and have a happy time. He saw the bat in the hollow tree, the worm deep in the ground; and, wherever he turned, he saw millions of eggs and grubs and chrysalides, well guarded and waiting confidently for him to go away.
He stamped on the ground and shouted in his loud, hoarse voice:
“Roar forth, mine anger, roar, and rouse, What breathes below earth’s girder! By thousands slay them!”
He shouted it over the land.
The ice broke and split into long cracks. It sounded like thunder from the bottom of the river.
Then the storm broke loose. The gale roared so that you could hear the trees fall crashing in the forest. The ice was split in two and the huge floes heaped up into towering icebergs. The snow fell and drifted over meadow and hill; sky and earth were blended into one. It was piercingly cold, and where the snow had been blown away the ground was hard as stone.
The Prince of Winter stood in the valley and looked upon all this with content. He went into the forest, where the snow was frozen to windward right up to the tips of the smooth beech-trunks; but in the boughs of the fir-trees it lay so thick that they were weighted right down to the ground.
“You may be Summer’s servants,” he said, “but still you have to resign yourselves to wearing my livery. And now the sun shall shine on you; and I will have a glorious day.”
He bade the sun come out and he came.
He rode over a bright blue sky, and all that was still alive in the valley raised itself towards him for warmth.
“Call Spring back to the valleys! Give us Summer again!”
The sun gleamed upon the hoar-frost but could not melt it; he stared down at the snow, but could not thaw it. The valley lay silent.
“That’s how I like to see the land,” said Winter.
The Prince of Winter sat on his mountain throne again and surveyed his kingdom and was glad. His great cold eyes stared, while he growled in his beard.
Proud of speed and hard of hand, A cruel lord to follow, Winter locks up sea and land, Blocks up every hollow. Summer coaxes, sweet and bland, Flowers in soft vigour, At Winter’s harsh and grim command They die of ruthless rigour. Short and cold is Winter’s Day, Long and worse night’s hours, Few birds languish in his pay And yet fewer flowers.
The days wore on and Winter reigned over the land.
The little brown mice had eaten their last nut; the hedgehog was hungry and the crows were nearly giving in.
Then suddenly there came the sound of singing.
Play up! Play soon, Keep time! Keep time! Ye wavelets blue and tender, Keep time! Keep time! Burst ice and rime In equinoctial splendor.
Up leaped Winter and stared with his hands over his brows.
Down below in the valley stood the Prince of Spring, young and straight in his green garb, with the lute slung over his shoulder. His long hair waved in the wind and his face was soft and round, his mouth was ever smiling and his eyes were dreamy and moist.
HOW SPRING AND WINTER MET
The Winter and the Spring were met: The Winter threw a fleecy net, And caught the young Spring over night. He put to sleep the budding tree Within a cloister dim and white; And the little golden crocus flower, That comes too early for the bee, He hid away from sunrise hour. The brook was conscious of his power And lost its trick of babbling words. But Spring awoke, despite his craft, And out of windows looked and laughed. At first he set to sing all birds, With twittering voices small and clear, And bade them say they felt no grief To find the snow and mildewed leaf Heaped up in nests they built last year. Then found a crystal alcove high The bluebird carolled to the sky. The robin whistled cheer, good cheer! The sparrow rung his matin bells, And far away in reedy dells The quail a friendly greeting sent. Then was the stifled pine not loth To shuffle off the dull white sloth; Then leaped the brook by icy stair, And snapped his fetters as he went; The sun shone out most full and fair, And Winter rose and struck his tent. Edith M. Thomas.
Transcriber's Note
On pp. 13-14 the text reads, "The king took up the sack nearest to him, their surprise, when out rushed a great heap of brown leaves, which flew all over the floor and half choked them with dust!" It appears there may be some missing text between "nearest to him" and "their surprise"; there does not appear to be any damage or obscured text in the original book, and the line count matches that of other pages, so it may be that a line was omitted during typesetting. The transcriber was unable to locate an alternative printing of the story, so, as it is impossible to determine what that text may be, the omission is preserved as printed.
Poe is referred to in this text as Edgar Allen Poe, rather than the more usual Edgar Allan Poe. This is preserved as printed.
Although authors and translators are listed in the Table of Contents, their names are not always included with their prose in the main text. This convention is retained here to match the original book.
Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.
Hyphenation and capitalisation has been made consistent within individual pieces in the book.
The following amendments have been made:
First page of Acknowledgments—Edinburg amended to Edinburgh—"To T. C. and E. C. Jack of Edinburgh ..."
Second page of Acknowledgments—Procter amended to Proctor—"... James Russell Lowell, Edna Dean Proctor, ..."
Second page of Contents—Horatio amended to Horatia—"... Juliana Horatia Ewing ..."
Third page of Contents—Spring and Winter reversed—"How Spring and Winter Met ..."
Page 19—Parain amended to Parian—"... On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; ..."
Page 52—truely amended to truly—"I have told you truly who she is."
Page 75—place amended to placed—"... they are placed alternately on each side ..."
Page 279—stone amended to stove—"I went under the stove and could lie down ..."
Page 360—hop-vine amended to hop-bine—"... and a long ripe hop-bine trailing after him ..."