RABBIT’S CREAM.
Everyone is well acquainted
With the arts of Frosty Jack—
With his etchings on the windows,
With the tints that mark his track;
But the quaint and merry artist
Has a fancy of his own
That is delicate and graceful,
But is not so widely known.
When no green is in the forest,
And no bloom is in the dell,
Not a flower star to twinkle,
Not the smallest blossom-bell,—
Here and there, an herb he singles,
Brown and dry, and round its stem
Fastens, with his magic fingers,
One great, silver-shining gem;
Shell-like, delicate and dainty,
White and lucent as a pearl;
Just as though he took a fragment
Of the mist, and with a twirl
Froze it into shape and substance—
Such a fine and fragile thing,
That the fairy queen might crush it,
If she brushed it with her wing.
Then he steals away, delighted;
He has planned a morning treat
For a troop who soon will flutter
Through the wood, on dancing feet;
All the little country urchins
Love to see its silver gleam—
Love to fancy it a dainty,
And they call it “rabbit’s cream.”
—Hattie Whitney.