Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1955-12-11
MCBRIDE SAYS
Snow Does
BringOut
The Poet

The sun Shone. the flame
vine blazed. the temperature
registered 10 when I few out
of Mexico City in the morn
ing, 1t was bleak, dark night
of the same day when l
reached my CatSkill Mountain
farm home 5000 miles away.
The birch trees. stripped of
their leaves. stood like slim,
sheeted ghosts along the road.
A pone-searching wind walled
in the pines.
Weather breeder" pro-
nounced the local taxi man
who never wastes word,
Sure enough, I woke in the
morning to a world in which
the first snow of the season
had had its sculpturesque way
with fields. meadows and
mountains The sight took my
breath away and confirmed
me in my belief that this par
ticular manifestation of ma
ture ought. by some species
Of law, to be confined to the
country except maybe on
Christmas eve, when it is use
full for urban decorating pur-
poses. Even then after few
hours it becomes a slushy dirty
nuisance
But out here the pure white
ness blanketing naked tree
branches. buildings and hills,
transforms the most prosaic
person into a near-poet, who
when he cannot produce
rhymes of his own, turns to
quoting. If only to the extent
of a few remembered lines
what real bards have fashioned
when under the spell of the
absolute stiffness and mys-
terry of the first snowfall. All
day I kept ranging from shut
in from all the world with
out ~ too "Oh, tn esnow.
the beautiful snow, filling the
sky and the earth below E"
with plenty of appropriate
rhetoric in between. such as
Their wintry garment of un-
sullied snow the mountains
have put on. and Byron speak
ing of Mont Blanc-"They
crowned him long ago with a
diadem of snow"
I could no on with that sport
for hours. since seeing how
many poems we could remem-
Der that mentioned snow was
one of our favorite winter
amusements back home when
we children came in red
checked and bright-eyed from
gathering eggs and carrying
food to the hens. Settled
around the red-hot base
burner, we toasted our chill
blamed hands. crunched 'ap-
pies. cracked hickory nuts and
took turns reciting. Because
we all knew it. we invariably
fought over The north wind
doth blow and we shall have
snow and what will poor Robin
do them" The one who lasted
longest was excused from do
ing any dishes or other chores
for a whole day-unless OF
course the winner was our
mother. which it usually was.
We all. including mama, took
1t for granted that she couldn't
be spared from her endless
sweeping. busting. scrubbing
and cooking. though we some
times gave her a vacation from
the eternal dishwashing. Mama
could always say more poems
on any subject than all the
rest of us put together. That
was because when she was
young, she and her old beau.
Cal Thomas, walking home
from school through the woods,
his mittened hand clasping
hers. intoned poetry all the
way.
Mama's favorite, which be-
came mine, was Coleridge's
Frost at Midnight" in which
the redbreast sits and sings
"betwixt the tufts of snow on
the bare branch of messy apple
tree" and which includes such
phrases as 1.-The secret ministry
of frost" and silent icicles."
Blessed be poets who find for
us the words we lack to express
our response to beauty.
(From Ap NeUsfeaturesb
- NAY~r e. TYYDn