The Press., 1888-03-29
e. V. Maxham, inithe Hartford Times.)
 WINTER IDYLS,

f0. V. MaxnaIn, lnitne harttord I1Ines.) WINTER IDYLS. This is the spot; the view remains unchanged. Ton long low range curved like hunters
 bow, With arc that spans the space 'twixt north
 and west,
 Protects these windward plains now mask
 cd with snow. Ton notch that darkles midway in the range, With jaw-like slopes that seem almost to
 meet, Holds like snake in it's relentless grip The tortuous road that leads to Somers
 Street. How beautiful is wonder milk-white spire! The sacred temple crowns a gentle knoll, And holds in heavenly trust the vale below. With pool and hamlet in its leafy bowl. Behold yon venturous crows! On wings be-
 numbed
 They beat with clumsy stroke the frosty air, While heec I Inimbus o'er some headland crag Beyond our vision warns them to their lair. But they are Safe. Broad leagues of vacant Stretch back between them and tue dreaded Fierce winds that mount from caverns of the
 deep.
 With plumes that shadow all the world be-
 low. Their lair-an aftergrowth of ancient woods Laps he's nuts rocky rampant gray and
 chill,
 And lengthens slowly in the westering sun As 'twere a shadow of that famous hill. There under solemn groins not made with
 hands,
 And where long aisles of velvet mosses run, They brood like m nks in nonasteries old, And wait the spring secure from snare and
 gun.
 Pale shadows creep, and keener grows the Its needles, tempered in the far nor'west, Are stitching fast, by ghostly fingers piled, A shroud in which to lay the sun at rest. Less than an arrows flight across the field There stands 8 plain and unpretending
 house, Whose towering naples swell in summer time Wi h birds and benedictionsi in their boughs. Now stripped of leaf they show the sweep
 and brawn
 Of mighty limbs that battle not in vain, When great Euroclydon swings from the East Ton bastion Hanks and entlades the plain. hear a hoof upon the stable floor, ; There side by side advanced ia years they
 stand,
 The silky stepping Tip and dauntless Ned. Between the sunny southern portico And the great Astrachan that bears no more, Branded with age, the sober watchdog sits, Framed like picture in his kennel door. A step in passage through the sheltered porch Makes summer like a thousand leagues of
 seas, From frozen lakes and hoary woods of spruce To Tempean wales and golden-armored --s beesl The Hell-worn knob needs but gentle touch {; And now the terrier, each joint spring, Escorts the chiding waitress through the hall, And barking supplements the bells soft
 ring. What friends have met and parted in this hall What souls have led sweet love into the
 skies, Since in the alcove by the winding stair Were shrined the family 'scuteheon and de-
 vice! The courteous host stands at the open door And greets his guests with rare d-fashion-
 ed grace, With tact to please alike in hall and hut. Full we'll the charming hostess fills her
 place. A voice remote and shrill breaks on the ear :- The petted parrot, not to be outdone, Shakes with dainty claw the gilded wires And orders Moll to put the kettle onl Here at the left the portiere softly slides Plum-hued and dull as fire enthralled in
 smoke And To, a scene of tropic beauty glows Fair to the eye asIf fairy wands invoke! And yet no tropic sun is creditor, Nor breath of Indian islands spiced and
 warm; It is the flame upon a northern hearth That gi ds the scene and weaves the creamy
 charm o russet throned midst dainties for desert, The bough that nurtured thee is all aglow With mimic blooms, and wasting sifts the
 hearth
 With rosy fakes as light as springtide snow! There are tonight more guests than were an-
 nounced,
 Dear shades of many an unforgotten year; ;- Our welcome was of word and grasp of hand And theirs the silent token and the tear A tender glamour falls oer all within, And souls are hushed that voiceless things
 may speak: The antique silhouette forgets its age And shows blush upon it's fire-ward cheek! o Memory! where on earth is there spot More dear than by the smoldering hearth s stone fire, When angels light their lamps in distant homes
 And thou dost tune for them thy sad, sweet
 lyrel
 Alas, how rare the dear old hearth tone now That charmed the winter nights when we were young The weird and wavering circle of it's light, Where goblin tales were told and ballads sungl .- The Correct Time. There are very few men who do not pride themselves on always having the correct tim and wonderful and delicate mechan- isms are devised to enable them to do. But the more delicate chronometer is made, the more subject it becomes to derangement, and unless it be kept always perfectly clean, il soon loses it's usefulness. What wonder,