THE SNOWFLAKES.
WHEN the Summer days grow shorter
And the Autumn holds its sway;
When the Flowers close up their houses,
And the Birds have moved away;
Then, up in the Polar regions
Where the towering icebergs rise,
Lots of little sleeping Fairies
Stretch and yawn, and open their eyes.
They’re the Sprites who drive the Snowflakes;
And on every hand, it seems,
Robes or jockey caps are scattered;
While their curious horseless teams,
Everywhere on clouds and icebergs,
Stand on end, or on their side,
In confusion, as they left them
From the previous Winter's ride.
When the North Wind comes and calls them,
All these Sprites rush here and there.
Setting up their scattered chariots,
Patching those that need repair;
Getting all things fixed and ready
For their drive through many a clime,
When Old Winter pops his head in,
Telling them it’s starting time.
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