A

Chanted Calendar

Autumn's Processional

Then step by step walks Autumn,
With steady eyes that show

Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the
While the equinoctials blow.

year,

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

October's Bright Blue Weather

O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather;

When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,

And goldenrod is dying fast,

And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When gentians roll their fringes tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls

Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely wayside things

Their white-winged seeds are sowing, And in the fields, still green and fair, Late aftermaths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,

Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,

And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.

O sun and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,

Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.

A Chanted Calendar

H. H.

Maple Leaves

October turned my maple's leaves to gold;
The most are gone now; here and there one

lingers:

Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold,
Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

A Chanted

"Down to Sleep"

Calendar November woods are bare and still,

November days are clear and bright,
Each noon burns up the morning's chill,
The morning's snow is gone by night,
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things "lie down to sleep."

I never knew before what beds,

Fragrant to smell and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads.
I never knew before, how much

Of human sound there is, in such

Low tones as through the forest sweep,
When all wild things "lie down to sleep."

Each day I find new coverlids

Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight.
Sometimes the viewless mother bids

Her ferns kneel down full in my sight,
I hear their chorus of "good night,"
And half I smile and half I weep,

Listening while they "lie down to sleep."

November woods are bare and still,

November days are bright and good,

Life's noon burns up life's morning chill,

Life's night rests feet that long have stood,
Some warm, soft bed in field or wood
The mother will not fail to keep
Where we can "lay us down to sleep."

H. H.

Winter

Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize,
Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;
Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,
And the dull drops that from his purple bill
As from a limbeck did adown distill;

In his right hand a tippèd staff he held
With which his feeble steps he stayed still,
For he was faint with cold and weak with eld,
That scarce his loosèd limbs he able was to weld.
EDMUND SPENSER.

When Icicles Hang by the Wall When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!

To-who-a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

A

Chanted Calendar

A

Chanted Calendar

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!

To-who-a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

From "Love's Labor's Lost."

A Winter Morning

There was never a leaf on bush or tree,
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;
The river was dumb and could not speak,
For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun;
A single crow on the tree-top bleak
From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun;
Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,
As if her veins were sapless and old,
And she rose up decrepitly

For a last dim look at earth and sea.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."