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44

My fellow-creatures too say 'Come!'

And stones, though speechless, are not dumb."

VAUGHAN

"And the need of a world of men for me."

ROBERT BROWNING

WINTER AND CHRISTMAS

OLD OCTOBER

Hail, old October, bright and chill,
First freedman from the summer sun!
Spice high the bowl, and drink your fill!
Thank heaven, at last the summer's done!

Come, friend, my fire is burning bright,
A fire's no longer out of place,

How clear it glows! (there's frost to-night,)
It looks white winter in the face.

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You've been to see 'King John." You've seen
A noble play: I'm glad you went;

But what on earth does Shakespeare mean
By "winter of our discontent"?

Be mine the Tree that feeds the fire!
Be mine the sun knows when to set!
Be mine the months when friends desire
To turn in here from cold and wet!

The sentry sun, that glared so long
O'erhead, deserts his summer post;
Ay, you may brew it hot and strong:
"The joys of winter "-come, a toast!

Shine on the kangaroo, thou sun!
Make far New Zealand faint with fear!
Don't hurry back to spoil our fun,
Thank goodness, old October's here!

Thomas Constable.

Winter Nights

NOW winter nights enlarge

The number of their hours;

And clouds their storms discharge

Upon the airy towers.

Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,

Let well-tuned words amaze

With harmony divine!

Now yellow waxen lights

Shall wait on honey love,

While youthful revels, masques, and Courtly sights,

Sleep's leaden spells remove.

This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;

Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.

All do not all things well:

Some measures comely tread,

Some knotted riddles tell,

Some poems smoothly read.

The summer hath his joys,

And winter his delights ;

Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.

Thomas Campion.

The Preludings

THE preludings of Winter are as beautiful as those

of the Spring. In a grey December day, when, as the farmers say, it is too cold to snow, his numbed fingers will let fall doubtfully a few star-shaped flakes the snowdrops or the anemones that harbinger his more assured reign. Now, and now only, may be seen, heaped on the horizon's eastern edge, those "blue clouds" from forth which Shakespeare says that Mars "doth pluck the masoned turrets." Sometimes also, when the sun is low, you will see a single cloud trailing a flurry of snow along the southern hills in a wavering fringe of purple. And when at last the real snowstorm comes, it leaves the earth with a virginal look on it that no other of the seasons can rival, compared with which, indeed, they seem soiled and vulgar.

And what is there in nature so beautiful as the next morning after such confusion of the elements? Night has no silence like this of a busy day. All the batteries of noise are spiked. We see the movement of life as a deaf man sees it, a mere wraith of the clamorous

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