Snowflakes Part 2

No, no, bonnie steed, I will not part with you.

But when thou art old and thy usefulness o'er, In a nice, cozy attic thy frame I will store,

And every day, be it sunshine or rain, I'll steal to thy side and in fancy again We'll skim the green meadows, my steed, you and I, 'Mong the flowers that grow 'neath the soft, tender sky.

Then come, let us bask in the dewy delight Of the country--hi! ho! we are soon out of sight.

Though a bit out of style, just the same is thy speed.

I love thee! I love thee! my bonnie bright steed.

DESPONDENCY.

Oh, balmy night--a night in June-- What endless beauties thine!

Hast thou a balm thou'lt gently breathe O'er tired souls like mine?

The cricket 'neath the old porch floor Chirps forth a merry lay; The roses nod and smile at me-- "A sweet good-night," they say.

Oh, cricket, hush your merry song; How can you be so gay?

Ye roses bow your crimson heads, And mourn my vanished day.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN.

How oft from the din of the hard city street, The show and the splendor, in fancy, my feet Stray backward through paths that are dripping with dew, To an old-fashioned garden my babyhood knew.

A wealth of red roses hung over the wall, And, laden with pink, downy peaches, a tall And willowy tree did its long branches sway O'erhead, as you pa.s.sed, in an inviting way; While from its green shelter the oriole's song Rode on the soft breezes the summer day long.

The currant-bush flourished in rows near the wall, The sugar corn waved its soft leaves over all; And b.u.t.tercups, daisies and peonies grew, The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue;

The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweet Lifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meet The first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet pea Wound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and we

To drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled, While sunflowers nodded to us as we filled Our baskets with blossoms for table bouquets, Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze; Or, with ap.r.o.ns outspread, in our childish delight, The b.u.t.terfly chased in his foraging flight 'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief, That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf.

But long years ago the old garden was sold!

Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold; Its beds and smooth pathways 'neath gra.s.s-tangles hid, For the breezes of June-time are whispering 'mid The flowers that blossom her pallet above, Who tended that old-fashioned garden I love; And singing their lullaby sweetest where lies My playmate and sister with bonnie blue eyes.

And I hope when my sojourn of usefulness here Is past, to the place that my bosom holds dear I may go, and there pillow my head 'neath the tree Where robin and oriole chirrup in glee, While my soul slips away from the spot that I love, To old-fashioned gardens that grow up above.

DANCE OF THE RIPPLES.

I stood, one night, by the old St. Joe, Where the moonbeams love to loiter; Watching the ripples come and go And the willow trees their shadows throw On the mystic, murm'ring water.

As I lingered there on the vine-clad bank, Where the pale rays glint and quiver Through the silvered leaves, a perfumed breeze So softly swayed the willow trees, And dappled the laughing river.

The waters murmured so low and sweet, Then an echo, soft and clear,-- Not the sound of lute or song of bird, But the sweetest music ever heard, Fell on my enchanted ear.

The silvered ripples all leaped for joy!

And over the waters glancing I saw, in the light, a pretty sight; In an ecstasy of glad delight, The ripples all were dancing.

They danced in the midst where the stars look down-- No shadowy branch to hide them; They danced where the willows kiss the stream, Then back again in the moonlight's gleam, And the fish peeped out and eyed them.

They danced in the shade of the iron bridge, Where the aspen's shadows play; And the great moon smiled as the dancers fled, And spangles dropped on each little head, As they laughed and danced away.

THE PESSIMIST.

Arrayed in a garment of fleeciest down, The Winter-king rides over meadows so brown; Through wild wailing woodlands so stark and so bare, He rides on the wind to the great everywhere.

He dresses the trees in the daintiest gown; And over each window in country and town, With fairy-like fingers, unheard and unseen, He pictures, in crystal and silvery sheen, Most beautiful cities with steeples and towers, And wild tangled mazes bespangled with flowers.

But 'mid the sweet music of jingling bells You hear the old pessimist counting his ills.

With a sorrowful shake of the head murmurs he, "Such nasty cold weather I never did see; The streets are so slip'ry one can't walk at all, For danger of breaking a leg by a fall; Unless a few days bring a great change about, The wheat in the ground will be all frozen out."

But roguish old Winter soon bundles his pack Of ice, frost, and snow, on his jolly old back, And hies to the mountain, but leaves in his stead The G.o.ddess of Love, with the blossom-crowned head; And a breath that is filled with the nectar and dew, She stole from the heart of the violet blue; A voice--O, the music that swells on the air From fresh-budding woodland, from hedge,--everywhere, Caressed by the sunlight and bathed by the showers, She walks on a carpet of mosses and flowers.

Again comes the pessimist, grumpy and grim, And says the fair G.o.ddess has no charms for him.

"'Tis raining too often, the corn and the wheat Will rot in the ground; there'll be nothing to eat; Besides, the old crow, in his greedy delight, Now raideth the cornfields from morning till night.

A famine is certain! 'Tis sure to prevail!"

And thus the old pessimist keeps up his wail.

At last this fair G.o.ddess descends from the throne, Gives place to another we've all loved and known.

Her crown is of roses, her garment of grain, With silken folds falling and rising again, As scent-laden wind o'er their soft billows plays; Enraptured, she basks in the blue summer haze, Till bliss is dissolved into tear-laden showers, That drench all the trees and refresh all the flowers.

As softly they fall on the roof o'er our heads, O, the sleep-haunted rapture their lullaby sheds!

Though harvest with plenty his gran'ries hath filled, The murmuring pessimist never is stilled.

He says, as he brushes the sweat from his brow, "I don't see the use of such hot weather now; 'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine-- Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine."

And thus the old pessimist grumbles away The brightness and joy of the long summer day.

He teases the evening, he teases the morn, Until the fair G.o.ddess of Autumn is born.

She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine, Sweet cl.u.s.ters that drip with the mellowest wine; And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree, And ears that are golden as golden can be.

Enrobed in a garment of crimson and brown, A garland of goldenrod forming her crown, In the mystic delight of the autumn she stands, And showers her gifts o'er the pessimist's lands; While he from his orchard-land turns in disgust, Saying, "Labor avails me but dust, mould, and rust; The winter comes on altogether too fast, The corn that's unhusked will be caught in the blast; My bills, they increase, while my business is slow; I soon shall be broken and bankrupt, I know!

There's no satisfaction on land or on sea, For nothing is what I desire it to be."

Say, Pessimist, say, while you grumble and fret, Know ye not there is One who your needs won't forget?

Think ye the kind Father of wisdom so great Forgetteth the things which His hands did create?

The sparrow sings neither by day nor by night, Yet He, in His tenderness, guideth its flight.

He maketh the lily of waxen-white hue, And feeds it on showers, on sunshine and dew; Yet lives there a king in such garments arrayed?

Such beauty as robes this sweet flower of the glade?

In rapturous reign, the cool waters beside, It looks up and trusts, and its needs are supplied.

The richest of treasures to thee will be given, If thou, like the lily, wilt look up to heaven.