FEBRUARY.

Come walk a mile with me —‘ Tis February;

The sun is creeping slowly toward the North,

And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry,

And prophets of the Spring are waking forth —

The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow

Beside his open villa, dark and cold,

And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow,

And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold.

And hark!— the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly,

And merry chickadees are piping loud,

E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly,

And the great trees are low before him bow'd;

And see!— the Lady of the South is creeping

Higher and higher —‘ Tis the hour of noon,

And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping,—

Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune.

Yet, as the sun is with the day declining,

Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West,

Where the snow-fairies are again designing

Another robe for Nature's barren breast.