The frost was thicker’n cream on all the winders;
Occazh’nully they’d be a pane ’thout none,
Or kivered only ha’f, an’ ’f I looked out,
Ez onct or twict I done, I seen a sight
Thet made me clean fergit how cold it was:
A sea o’ white ’way down ter “Thirty-One,”
With waves o’ drifts piled ev’ry here an’ thar;
An’ still—Jerushy! Still’s a mounting top
Up thar amongst them craters on the moon.
The only noise we heerd inside, ’cept co’se