Posts Tagged ‘Winter’

Out of a Frederick Window

December 4, 2012

TP Fall Snow SA 1

Image from

Out Of A Frederick Window.

Out of a Frederick window — a glimpse of a far off hill
Out of a Frederick window — a vale and a rippling rill;
Out of a Frederick window — a mountain with crown of snow,
And a long, white road through the valley that sweeps like a bowl below;
Out of a Frederick window — the fields of the winter wheat,
And over it all Catcoctin, with the town at its green-girt feet!

Out of a Frederick window — a window that looks to the west,
The beautiful blue hills dreaming the dream of the wintry rest;
Snow-crowned gleaming and splendid, somber when dusk drifts down
And the bells of the twilight echo from the spires of the beautiful town;
Out of a Frederick window — the old pike winding far,
The vales and the bending river, the peaks and the evening star!

Out of a Frederick window — a glimpse of the naked trees,
Braddock upon the summit, and the echo of melodies
When the bees in the summer orchards and the hillside birds set fire
To the heart of the listening dreamers as they sang in a sweetheart choir;
Out of a Frederick window — the meadows of furzo and bloom,
And love in a faded garden with her foot on a silver loom!

Out of a Frederick window — a car climbs over the hill,
The steel wires sing in the valley and cows come down to the rill;
The phantoms of old, sweet faces, the shadows of old friends, glide,
And a great dream breaks into morning with a young heart by my side;
Out of a Frederick window — the valleys, and there they lie,
The peaks of the loved Catoctin in the blue of a wintry sky!

— The Bentztown Bard in The Baltimore Sun.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Dec 15, 1915

Jack Frost

February 21, 2012

Image from Power of Babel


The door was shut, as doors should be,
Before you went to bed last night;
Yet Jack Frost had got in, you see,
And left your window silver white.

He must have waited till you slept;
And not a single word he spoke.
But penciled o’er the panes and crept
Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills
Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;
But there are fairer things than these
His fingers traced on every pane.

Rocks and castles towering high;
Hills and dales, and streams and fields;
And knights in armor riding by,
With nodding plumes and shining shields.

And here are little boats, and there
Big ships with sails spread to the breeze;
And yonder, palm tress waving fair,
On islands set in silver seas.

And butterflies with gauzy wings;
And herds of cows and flocks of sheep;
And fruit and flowers and all the things
You see when your are sound asleep.

For creeping softly underneath
The door when all the lights are out,
Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe,
And knows the things you think about.

He paints them on the window pane
In fairy lines with frozen steam;
And when you wake you see again
The lovely things you saw in dream.

–Gabriel Setoun

The Oshkosh Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Feb 25, 1936

Title: The Child World
Author: Gabriel Setoun
Illustrated by: Charles Robinson
Published: 1896
Jack Frost – Page 86

Never Again

February 13, 2012

Image from Quote a Gentleman


The poets sing
Of gentle spring
In language that is rich
They hand a bluff
And sell the stuff
To magazines and sich.
They rave and shout
And rhyme about
The fragrance of the air,
And of the joy
Without alloy
That lingers everywhere.
But when it snows
And rains and blows
And does a dozen stunts
With hail and sleet,
and lightning sheet
and does ’em all at once;
When nature drops
And deftly flops
A back-hand somersaults
I think right now
You will allow
It’s time to call a halt.
My lyre is still
And never will
Twang for you as of yore
Oh, gentle spring
You fickle thing
I’ll boost your game no more.

Eau Claire Leader (Eau Claire, Wisconsin) Mar 16, 1912

Sleighing Season

December 15, 2011

The Sleighing Season.

The enlivening tinkle of the tiny bells in the streets, keept us in mind that sleighing is an amusement only of the winter, and then it is confined to the uncertain snows, which occasionally enshroud the earth in this fickle climate.

Old and young, the “boys and girls,” — all are in merry glee over the animating scenes of the sleigh ride. Nearly all locomotion, except the walking party, has been on runners this week. We have the rustic sled, the “bob” and the “hickory jumper,” the “two in hand” and the solitary “clipper,” flying through the lively streets, on business or pleasure as the case may be.

But stop and consider!

All the race of that noble servant of man, the horse, are appealing for mercy to their master. Weary and panting and white with perspiration in the cutting frost, they call for our sympathies in contributing to our pleasure and happiness.

Allen County Democrat (Lima, Ohio) Jan 7, 1875

They Are Strangers Now.

A Middleton young lady never tires of relaing an amusing occurrence of the sleighing season last winter. She was enjoying a ride in company with two Hartford gentlemen, and she was driving. One of the gentlemen slily inserted a hand in her muff and lovingly pressed her disengaged hand. She blushed and withdrew it just as the gentleman on the other side slipped his hand into the muff. She knew by the actions of her adorers that the hand pressures were frequent and loving within the silken lining of the muff, for first one face and then the other bobbed forward to catch a look at the sweet face and eyes which prompted, as they supposed, the tender pressure of the hand.

The by-play lasted until the young lady quietly remarked:

“If you gentlemen are through with my muff, I will trouble you for it now, as my hands are getting cold.”

And the gentlemen, who had been comfortably warm up to this time, suddenly felt an arctic chill creeping up there spinal columns, and the mercury of their feelings dropped to 180 degrees below zero. The two gentlemen are strangers now.

Chester Times (Chester, Pennsylvania) Aug 8, 1882

A Solemn Joker.

An Indianapolis society man played a mean trick during the sleighing season, and the young lady hasn’t spoken to him since. They had been old friends for a long time, and it was natural that they should carelessly drive away from the madding crowd on Meridian street and explore the country roads. After they had gotten out about three miles away from anywhere, the gentleman startled his companion by suddenly looking her in the eye and remarking:

“Miss Nellie, we have been friends for a long time, and I know you have perfect confidence in me. But here we are, far away from everybody, where no one could hear you if you should cry out” —

The frightened young woman was  on the verge of springing from the sleigh, but she was even more astounded than frightened, and before she could gather her wits he continued:

“Now, Miss Nellie, I want to beg of you the privilege of one sweet — smoke! May I light a cigar?” And he never even smiled.

— Indianapolis Journal.

Indiana County Gazette (Indiana, Pennsylvania) Apr 13, 1892

Winter Whims

December 7, 2011


The first snow lay in lacy, shining folds,
Beneath the moon that shone majestically;
It caught the glint that moonlight often holds,
And held it so that all the night could see.

The woods below the hill were gray and cold,
And all alone they greeted winter’s birth;
An icy breeze then stirred the branches bold,
So one would think the life was all of mirth.

But morning came and with its prying light
It showed the hill and wood all dark and sad;
The forest shook its arms again, in spite,
To make believe that it was gay and glad.

But at the twilight hour as I went by,
I heard the woods in sobbing, mourning song,
That ended in a hopeless, dismal sigh,
As though it knew the winter would be long.

And strange as it may see, that night the moon
From in a cloud of darkness never stirred —
The wind kept up a melancholy tune
So the wood might grieve alone, unseen, unheard.

— Edna H. Sumner.

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Dec 20, 1924

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Dec 7, 1921

Bringing in the Coal

November 10, 2011


When I was but a little lad
Before I went to bed
There was a winter task I had
I used to view with dread;
Into the dark and frozen land
I made a nightly stroll
To carry back in either hand
A scuttle full of coal.

The barn was ninety feet away,
But still it seemed a mile,
For many ghostly shadows lay
Along that snow-flaked aisle.
So black the place, so dim the light,
It terrified the soul
Sometimes to go out there at night
To carry in the coal.

Oft at the open kitchen door
My mother used to stand
And watch for me to come once more
From that forbidding land.
As from that inky pit I came
As swiftly as I could,
I’d see her in the gas jet’s flame
And, oh, the sight was good!

But times have changed. Our boys today
Know naught of winter’s chill.
They go serenely on their way
And have no stoves to fill.
They merely move a thermostat
And pipes grow steaming hot,
And life is easier, but at that
I think they’ve missed a lot!

(Copyright, 1935) By Edgar Guest

Lima News (Lima, Ohio) Jan 9, 1935

A Melon in Texas

November 8, 2011

Image from the Digital Art Gallery


Some where in Texas a melon now grows,
A melon intended for me;
Here where it’s cold and a north blizzard blows
In fancy that melon I see.
And something like perfume comes into my mouth
As I think of the gift which shall come from the south.

Now it may be a blossom new-come to the vine,
Or a little green speck on the ground,
But I know very well shall that melon be mine
When my birthday comes rolling around,
For once every year out of Texas a friend
A red-hearted melon remembers to send.

It comes in a wash-tub which nicely it fills
With a mattress of straw for its bed,
And we revel for days in the goodness it spills
From its luscious interior so red.
The neighbors drop in and the children draw near
And for Texan good nature we all give a cheer!

Now I look from my window and gaze at the snow
And the grayness of ice and of sleet,
And I think down in Texas they’ve started to grow
A melon that some day I’ll eat.
And I pray to the Lord to watch over my friend
And give sweetness and size to that melon he’ll send.

(Copyright, 1929.) By Edgar Guest

Lima News (Lima, Ohio) Feb 21, 1929


February 5, 2011

Image from the 19th-century Woman blog, who has several of these winter scenes posted.


E’en the old posts, that hold the bars,
And the old gate,
Forgetful of their winter’s wars,
And aged sedate,
High capped and plumed, like white hussars,
Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the rill,
The eaves, the door;
The hay-stack has become a hill —
All covered o’er —
The wagon loaded for the mill,
The night before!

Maria brings the water pail —
But where’s the well?
Like magic of a fairy tale,
Most strange to tell,
All vanished! curb, and crank, and rail —
How deep it fell!

The wood-pile, too, is playing hide
The ax — the log —
The kennel of that friend so tried,
(The old watch-dog –)
The grindstone standing by its side,
All now incog!

The bustling cock looks our aghast,
From his high shed;
No spot to scratch him a repast —
Up curves his head.
Starts the dull hamlet with a blast,
Then back to bed!

Democratic State Register (Watertown and Dodge Center, Wisconsin) Jan 13, 1851

Poetry for Winter

December 4, 2009

Winter Coming

A week or so since, we were forcibly reminded of the following, by Hood:

Summer’s gone and over!
Fogs are falling down;
And with russet tinges,
Autumn’s doing brown.

Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

Round the tops of houses,
Swallows, as they flit,
Give, like yearly tenants,
Notices to quit.

Skies, of fickle temper,
Weep by turns and laugh —
Night and Day together,
Taking half and half.

So September endeth —
Cold and most perverse;
But the months that follow,
Sure will pinch us worse!

Republican Compiler (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Nov 17, 1845

A.S. McDonald.

Athwart the skies
The red bird flies
Through snow flakes light,
In soft disguise
The landscape lies
Serenely white.

What gorgeous dyes
Delight the eyes
When, flecked with white
Athwart the skies,
The red bird flies
Through fields of light.

Cambridge Jeffersonian (Cambridge, Ohio) Jan 8, 1885


COLD! — bitterly cold!
The moon is bright
And the snow is white
Beautiful to behold.
But the wind is howling
Like hungry prowling
Wolves on the wintry wold!
Cold! — bitterly cold!

My shawl is ragged and old —
The hearth deserted and dark,
Gladdened by never a spark;
And my only light
Is the pitiless white,
That the moonbeams spill
Silvery chill,
Cruelly — splendidly bright,
This frosty winter’s night —
Cold! — bitterly cold!

Babe, more precious than gold,
Rest, little one, rest!
Sleep my own one,
Slumber, thou lone one,
Clasped to thy mother’s breast,
Though thin and wasted her form,
Her arms shall cufold
And shield thee from cold,
For the love in her breast
For the love in her breast is warm
Though the chill night breeze
May the life-blood freeze —
Cold! — bitterly cold!

Cold! — bitterly cold!
My eyes are dim,
And my senses swim,
And racking pains are in every limb, —
I am prematurely old!
Foodless and tireless,
Almost attireless,
Weapt in rags so scanty and thin
With bones that stare through the colorless skin,
Weary and worn
Tattered and torn,
If I should wish I had ne’er been born —
Tell me, is it a sin?
Cold world! — bitterly cold!

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Dec 16, 1871


NOW Autumn’s variegated scenes
Are hast’ning to a close’
And soon the farmer will enjoy
The Winter’s calm repose.
No more he’ll turn the verdant globe
‘Till Spring renews the plain,
Nor plant with care the swelling corn,
Nor sow the yellow grain.

The Summer’s bright and scorching sun,
And sultry breeze are past,
Follow’d by autumn’s feeble rays,
And Winter’s chilling blast.
The various fruits of summer months
And sober autumn’s reign,
Now meet no more the wand’ring eye
Or variegate the plain.

From thinking on the winter’s blast,
The Farmer’s mind recoils
Back on these pleasing scenes, now past,
His various summer toils.
How in the pleasant month of June,
When nature all is gay,
He mow’d with care the curling grass,
And made the fragrant hay.

Or when the yellow waving grain
Proclaim’d the harvest near,
When blythsome steps he paced the plain,
And view’d each golden ear;
Which, when matur’d, by sturdy swains,
A sickle each in hand,
With rushing noise, and clamorour mirth,
Was reap’d and bound in bands.

Then to the barn was safe convey’d,
The Winter’s den supply,
Secure from near approaching rain
That threatened in the sky.
Now harvest’s o’er and Phoebus’ beams
With lessen’d ardour shine;
Autumn steals in with grave approach
On summer’s slow decline.

To plow the spacious fallow-field
And break the stubborn soil,
He yokes the patient, sturdy team,
And whistles as he toils.
Thus whistling o’er the furrow’d field,
His though  with pleasure dwells
On the next harvest’s plentious yield,
‘Till hope his bosom swells.

Now noon-day’s glimmering, gloomy sun,
And evening’s chilling air,
And yellow fading nature’s face,
Proclaim the autumn here.
The spacious fields where lowing herds,
In richest pasture stray’d
In summer months, are now forsook;
Their verdure all decay’d.

The butter-firkin, long ‘ere this,
By careful house-wife fill’d,
For winter’s store, shall rich supplies
Or yellow treasure yield.
Matured by genial summer suns,
And tinged with gold around,
The apple from the bended bough,
Comes rattling to the ground:

Which roguish lads and lasses coy,
Trigg’d up so neat and spry,
Collected into evening clubs,
Now peel and cut, to dry,
Or to extract their precious juice,
The mill and press are plied;
Which soon or late in earthen mug,
Shall cheer the bright fire-side.

Or else condens’d to whiskey’s form —
That wonder-working drink,
Which drowns dull care in frantick mirth,
And e’en makes numb-heads think —
It sparkles in the shining glass;
Here reader take a thought:
[Sip you too oft this poisonous draught?
If so — you’ll come to nought.]

The grey-clad cornfield’s rustling noise,
Declares the husking near;
Depending from the loaded stalks,
Are seen the numerous ears.
The husker now, (with peg in hand)
Stalk slowly through the field;
Asunder cleft each stubborn husk
Its yellow treasure yields.

Then sounds the axe among forest oaks,
Fit winter’s fire-wood deem’d;
Homeward the loaded wagon hies,
Drawn by the sturdy team.
Surrounded thus, with bounteous store,
John would not wish to roam;
Content, he with his wife and friends,
Enjoys the sweet of HOME.

Dec. 1814

Ohio Repository, The (Canton, Ohio)Nov 21,> 1816



When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the white-thorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill
That overbrows the lonely vale.

O’er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladdens these deep solitudes.

On the gray maple’s crusted bark,
Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips;
Whilst in the frozen fountain — hark! —
His piercing  beak the bittern dips.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke —
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river’s gradual tide,
Shully the skater’s iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out the mellow lay;
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods, within your crowd;
And gathered winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds, my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year —
I listen, and it cheers me long.

Republican Compiler (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Feb 17,  1845


The springtime came — the springtime went
With shimmering cloud and shiny weather,
The golden glory of June was spent,
On hills and fields we roamed together,
We walked through autumn’s purple haze,
The future’s dream of bliss forestalling,
And shuddering thought of winter days,
With snows a falling.

For earth was all so wondrous fair,
And heaven smiled down so blue above it,
Each wandering breath of balmy air
But bade us learn anew to love it.
What wonder if with all so bright,
And wild birds through the woodland calling,
We sighed to think of a winter’s night,
And snow a falling.

But when at last the world was dressed
In shining robes of ice-maid gleaming,
And calm white silence lulled to rest
The pale, dead flowers beneath it dreaming,
Behold we woke to find made true
The hope our hearts had been forestalling,
And life grew fairer than we knew
While snows were falling.

Ah, well! the days of youth fly fast,
Their suns grow dim, their blossoms wither,
And all the dreams that made our past
Fly fast and far, we know not wither;
But when we tread life’s wintry slope,
We hear again their voices calling,
And Memory clasps the hand of Hope,
While snows are falling.

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Jan 13, 1872