[HOW IT HAPPENED TO SNOW.]
BY I. M.
What Jack Frost said to the trees, dear,
It never would do to tell;
He whispered the magic words, dear,
To oak and maple as well.
Some of them blushed bright red, dear,
And some of them turned to yellow,
While Jack he laughed in his sleeve, dear,
The good-for-nothing old fellow.
What Jack Frost did to the leaves, dear,
I never would dare to say;
They wrung their little brown hands, dear,
In a pitiful, helpless way.
The kind sun felt so sad, dear,
To see the leaves in pain,
That he hid his face for a week, dear,
And wept great showers of rain.
But Jack Frost's cruel breath, dear,
Grew colder day by day,
And chilled the leaves, until, dear,
They withered and dropped away.
Then the tall trees stood amazed, dear,
Lamenting, when they found
That their green and rustling robes, dear,
Lay faded on the ground.
The angels too were grieved, dear,
When the trees looked cold and bare,
So they gathered the soft white clouds, dear,
That floated in upper air,
And tossed great armfuls down, dear,
In the stillness of the night,
And were glad to see how pure, dear,
The world looked clothed in white.
What the children said next day, dear,
I think you must surely know;
But please don't say that I told, dear,
Just how it happened to snow;
For that wicked old Jack Frost, dear,
Would nip my nose in spite,
And pinch my poor ten toes, dear,
The next cold winter's night.
A MOTHER'S DEVOTION.—From an Etching by de Mary.