Litchfield enquirer. [volume] (Litchfield, Conn.) 1829-current, 1856-12-04
FOR 1860.
JOHN C. FREMONT,

For Prosidenf..-l26l
OF CALIFORNIA.

drop 0y drop on the slim icicles the water has fallen
till the rustling Of the hemlocks, and the hymning
of the pine alone made music the snow Aosts down
| tonight.
Like the sound Of insects In Autumn, the dead
upon the forest branches rustic and give back
a murmur. while high upon . blasted limb of yon-
der pine one solitary crow croaks loud, answer
ed occasionally by the sharp cry of the Jay hr of
in the depth Of the forest
Slowly, at first, . few white fakes that whirled
about the sky, and at length settled I'm tiny heaps
behind door slls, and in holes where dead leaves had
lodged, it came; and now as evening closes in with
heavy, eaen clouds, see tops of gate posts crown
Cd with diadems and pckets along the pslings hung
with festoons and now it comes faster and faster
outside hear the shout of farmer who hastens
home his flock to winter quarters, the calves and
sheep which long have nibbled the scanty heritage
the hills, and that now with white backs and heads
turned sideways to the storm trot quickly forward
II 1t SHOWS thus all night, tomorrow will see the
whole world about wrapt in its winter mantle of
bridal white.
o, the sncw, the snow! with what delight the
children hail it, who long across the barren hill
lave cast wistful eyes-hoping, dreaming for the
time that should scatter the snow fakes and whten
all the land. The old man by the 6re-sde hears
them shouting, "it snow, it SHOWS !" he shakes his
head for the winter at his heart heavy and snow.
drifts Of many winters are pressed ON the bosomsof
companions,
The child of the widow hears it rafting upon the
dry stalks OF the syringas by the windows all day,
with rude mechanism, have his hands wrought at
his sled, and all day, cold as the snow-akes out
Of the Heaven, have the tears Of his mother fallen
Her barrel of meal is very acant and the soggy logs
Of her wood-pile are almost gone. and memory like
spectre guest. sits shivering in the cold chamber
of her heart.
The happy mother brings her babe to the casoment
It laughs and crows at the sight of IT. brothers who
sport on the drifts beyond; 1t breathes upon the
pane, and she writes its name Upon the moisture
snow-drop, shs writes, and then, Mary.
And now balls jingle along the streets, and sleighs
full Of country folk pa; how chesy ass the cheeks
and lips Of the girls, and Sc the caps and mufes
Of the boys are white with their resrring frosted
also arc the tails and name Of the horses On they
Co. the crisPed snow crcaks Under the runners, and
back as If borne rhe dense breath of the animals
floats the sound Of their laughter. In their fight
they pass poor mendicant he stands knee-deep in
the road Drift and gazes after them, till the hill cuts
them off from his view, and then with slow and
uncertain football moves forward on his journey
He approaches the gate where still the mother and
child play ut the window, the boys pclt him with
snowballs nor stop 1t the knock, of their mother,
upon the easement Slow he passes the gable Of the
building and enters at the back door of the kitchen
he may have been dwellcr in kings palaces, but
now he Is hungry and begs for the crumbs Of The
table. o, the snow, the snow even here, where the
fire is bright the hearth Of tho farm -house, and
poverty scemeth q stranger is too often grievous
thing too often the forcrunncr of tears and bitter
suffering.
To the city also, it has come at last, only few
white flakes dotted about the coats and umbrei-
las of the passen-by-a few flakes that soon melt
the walks, or become drops of water in the
child's hands, who thought to retain one of the lit
tie stars for his mother.
but it will come faster and faster by-and-by. and
when the curtains drawn, and the lamps lighted
in the parlor, you will scarcely hear the muficd
footstcps Of the few passengers who hasten along
half blinded by the tempest Then carriages rat
Ting home at midnight will be less noisy than usu-
al and you will miss altogether the tread Of the
old watchman who Was wont to pass when the bells
were tolling the midnight hour. And the very
clocks, too, a. they call the time, have . leaden
sound. growing louder only as the snow is removed
from the bell hammers.
So, too, you will be awakened at morning by the
dull sounds about; the indistinct cry of milkmen
down the street, whom You hear stamping the snow
from their feet, Is they enter the houses. Then,
half sleeping, you will hear other sounds, growing
louder and more numerous! the ringing of shovcls
about the doorsteps and the rattng of Goals in the
riddles Of the ash-gathercrs. Opening your eyes,
you will perceive white festoons clinging to the
window blinds and little heaps of snow that have
drifted against the chimney stacks on the houses OBJ
posite. You will say when you come down to
breakfast, "you are sorry to sec It; sorry, be-
cause it always makes such bad work in the city"
But you are not the only one who is sorry; o, no
there Is the old rag picker counting out Of his bag
the price Of pair Of shoes: how he curses the
snow that win no longer permit his bare feet upou
the pavement. -
And there. Also ia the little girl who must 20 out
on the Ice with ont Shoes and beg for the price d
them, which v i'll never come into the hands of 9
cobhlcR, o. help to cover the half frozen feet-she
too. ID sorry And the children shiyering ut fhe
crossings, scrubbing away the mud for you to pass