THE snow-flakes tap soft at my window, And tell, in their queer little way, That Jesse, my little boy-neighbor, Is another year older to-day.
"Eight years," said one gossiping fellow, "Have rolled over Jesse's bright head." "And how do you know?" asked another, Who looked like a small feather-bed;
"I've known," said the first, "since last summer: When I was a dew-drop, one morn The little boy gathered the rose-bud Where I glistened, just under the thorn,
"I heard what he said to a playmate: 'Next March, if I live, I'll be eight;' Then he shook the bud hard and I tumbled Down under his feet by the gate.
"But the sun, he let down a gold ladder, And I climbed on it up to the sky, And froze myself into a snow-flake, To wait till the summer went by.
"For I thought when old March blew his trumpet I'd sail on 1its blast to the earth, And see if the little boy's birthday Was properly brightened with mirth."
Then the two little chattering snow-flakes Joined hands and whirled round in great glee, Till, dizzy, they leaned 'gainst the window And flattened their noses at me.
