THE FIRST SNOW-STORM.
Oh, what shall we do? cried a sad little bird—
Oh, what shall we do? cried she;
For the fields lie white in the morning light,
And there's never a leaf on a tree—
Tree, tree, tree—
And there's never a leaf on a tree.
Oh, let us be off to the fair sunny South—
Oh, let us be off, said he;
For they tell me down there they've enough and to spare
For my dear little wifey and me—
Me, me, me—
For my dear little wifey and me.
Fig. 1.