The concluding pages of this work are being written and printed during a hard frost. The closing days of the past year, and the early days of the current year will long be remembered amongst severe winters.
Perhaps we cannot more fitly close our account of “Famous Frosts and Frost Fairs,” than by quoting the following lines from the facile pen of Edith May, culled from the pages of Hale’s “Selections of Female Writers,” published in 1853.
FROST PICTURES.
When like a sullen exile driven forth,
Southward, December drags his icy chain,
He graves fair pictures of his native North
On the crisp window-pane.
So some pale captive blurs, with lips unshorn,
The latticed glass, and shapes rude outlines there,