Harrisburg telegraph. [volume] (Harrisburg, Pa.) 1879-1948, 1918-01-21
ALL SIGNS FAIL

= rs an old adage that AL signs
fail in dry weather" and the
same might be said of hard win
ters 1t usually happens, in this
latitude and longitude, that thaw
follows a snowstorm. This has oc-
Cured so frequently in recent years
that the sound of sleighbells became
almost as rare as that ancient form
of social pleasure known as the
"sleighing party" Even in the old
en- days of New England, if we are
to believe Mr.. Whittier's observa-
tions in "Snowbound," a moderation
of temperature and bright sunshiny
days followed in the wake of a
storm. But not so in Central Penn
sylvania this year of our Lord 1918.
Our lot is zero weather, snow, zero
weather, and then more snow, with
the mercury scarcely as much as
raising its eyebrows between times.
Not that we object so much to
snow, as such. 1t was all very well
for the family of the aforesaid John
Greenleaf Whittier, for example, to
"sit the clean-winged hearth about,
content to let the north wind roar
in baffled rage at pane and door,
If that's the kind of thing a bliz-
zard meant in these days we would
pray on bended knees for bliz-
zard every night. But, as the poet
also wrote, times have changed, and
now what does blizzard mean? a
day with the family around the fire,
listening to the ''wintry blast shake
beam and rafter as it passed" or to
make merry over the mug of
cider simmering low, the apples
sputtering in a row." or to toast our
feet before glowing log while, as
the snow-laden gale swept by, the
"merrier up it's roaring draught the
great throat of the chimney laugh
ed?" Any such ideally cozy lot for
us poor mortals of a modern day
when the blizzard descends and the
begins to "strafe' us?
Not much!
Here's what happens. We crawl
out of bed two hours earlier than
usual, after repeated proddings of
conscience-ando our wives-to make
the rounds of the water spigots, test
ing 'em for freeze-ups and, alas, too
often finding 'em. We cuss the coal
shortage experts at Washington be-
cause we dare put on only a table
spoonful of coal at time when the
demands a bushel, and
we shovel q path so that the milk
man-if he ever comes-may deign
to pause long enough before our
door to leave a quart of six cent
milk for which he collects twelve
cents. And after a breakfast
snatched in hurry in a cold kitch-
en-, what? Why, a sharp run for the
Z o'clock trolley, which on snowy
days usually comes piking along,
somewhat after the manner of the
dillar-a-dollar scholar of Mother
Goose, somewhere between 10
o'clock and noon.
OF course, we know that the car
won De IneEes Dul-dBdln using Ine
language of our poet friend upon a
somewhat different but no less tragic
occasion - hope will dream and
faith will trust, that, somehow, some
where, meet we must" and so we
go rushing away for the car which
doesn't come and we get down to
work mad clean through an hour
late and the boss gives us look like
you imagine Mr.. Wilson would pass
to the Kaiser should the two meet
on the boulevard, and the whole
poetic effect of the Snow. the snow,
the beautiful snow" is lost upon us.
Besides, by that time the falling
mercury has turned our thoughts
back again to that dwindling coal
pile. We shudder for the reputa-
ton of the good Quaker poet had he
tried to write his "Snowbound" to
the meter of modern conditions.