The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1878-02-15

~ ALFRED y. srRKEr.

The silver NOTES pick way amid the thatch
Which crown with ragged gold the cottage walls
That stand with the tall Msy-poie IN the MUS.
Are trimmed with pearl, Ger which the purple
curls in the winter haze. Cow-shed and coop
Kennel ard stable-a low nest OF roofs
Arc sculptured into silver plates that Hash
Hack the strong sun-glow. A round, ruddy shape
Beneath the shed, tells the dun Durham .a COW
The sloping fowls Ut roost ring OF fur
shows the coiled mastiff; and brindle OF hues
Old Dobbin nunching at his hay-hiled rack.
The red-cloaked crones are grouped along the
Park paiings, mounded with low pollard-oaks,
Pointed with frs and green with Ivy. Smooth
The wayy lawn beyond the skirt OF trees,
Where stray the black-eyod deer, and browse upon
The laurel, poisoning man, but food for them.
Beyond, the grand old Hall Of mellow brick
Stands with its twisted gables In a swarm
OF moty, snowflake, tuttering bees. The great
Bow windows glitter through the silver specks,
And the rocks spot the ems and oaks that bold
The noisy colony, which in and out
The falling fakes glance like black, flying ghosts.
The peacocks, long and streamy, perch along
The balustrades that line the terraces,
Where the packed yews are clipped TO dog and bird.
The roohess abbey glimmers in the snow;
Within whose aisle Dame Crutch has reared her hut
Backed by the broken wall; the window high
And broad, that shone in pomp Of painted glass
On the wide chancel, paneless lets the moon
Upon the grassy area where the goat
That, with the cat, shares the danes cracking
hearth ll
In summer grazes. A white billow now,
Burrows the scene. Upon the bleak, cold stretch
OF common, droops beneath the withered thorn
The ragged donkey. Blinded in the mist, "a.
Old Tom, the carrier, staggers by his team
Dragging. the broad-wheeled wagon through the
drifts, ~.
One sturdy steed lengthening his neck TO neigh
Shrill his discomfort, while his mate In vain
Paws the white depth to powder, for a space
To stand. Instead of merry, jingling bell,
Keen cracks the whip in snappish wrath; but still
The wheel is blocked, and still the steeds awry,
Refuse the way toward the near village where
The little tayern's eyeball window glares
Red comfort for the weary. Sad thinks Tom
OF the warm kitchen hung with ruddy fitch,
White hooks OF pastry, and the roaring hearth
Where clicks the smoke-jack and the turnspt
CLEANS
In the blithe heat. The neatly sanded floor,
With benches ranged along the oaken wall
Glossy with age, its gritty carpet spreads
Not for his tread. The silver-headed ale
HUNS there in vain for him. The fatty chine
Mounds the warm platter with no slice TO line
His hungry throat, and crack crack his lash
Sounds through the streaming flakes Within the
lane,
Meanwhile, the children build the SLOVENIAN up,
While grandsire Philip bears his fagots through
The stile to his low cottage at the turn
OF the gray church wall the dark, wreathing reek
Thaws the white chimney, while the falling flakes
Cling with their furry claws, like little bars,
Close to the slender rafters of the thatch,
The stone church stands, in the pearl-smoke of
snow
Freezing, and the mute bell can scarce be seen
Through the whirled, swarm-like, tiny, silver
rocks.
Thus passes on the day, till starry night
Looks on the scene, and the bare moon beams out
With her cold crystal on q world Of snow.
Country Gentleman.