Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/195

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THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW.
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Needles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks,And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath,Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and laughedTheir slender laugh to see him wink and grinAnd make grim faces as he floundered on. But, when the spring came on, what terror reignedAmong these Little People of the Snow!To them the sun's warm beams were shafts of fire,And the soft south wind was the wind of death.Away they flew, all with a pretty scowlUpon their childish faces, to the north,Or scampered upward to the mountain's top,And there defied their enemy, the Spring;Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks,And moulding little snow-balls in their palms,And rolling them, to crush her flowers below,Down the steep snow-fields. Alice.—That, too, must have beenA merry sight to look at.
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