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POEMS.
 Uncle John.—You are right,But I must speak of graver matters now. Mid-winter was the time, and Eva stood,Within the cottage, all prepared to dareThe outer cold, with ample furry robeClose belted round her waist, and boots of fur,And a broad kerchief, which her mother's handHad closely drawn about her ruddy cheek."Now, stay not long abroad," said the good dame,"For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well,Go not upon the snow beyond the spotWhere the great linden bounds the neighboring field." The little maiden promised, and went forth,And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with frostBeneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms,Into the hollows. Once, as up a driftShe slowly rose, before her, in the way,
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