University of Virginia Library

A bright, little rogue jumped out of bed,
With his cheek flushed warm,—and his moist, brown hair
Curling and floating all over his head,
As if Slumber had only been frolicking there.
He sprang to the window in wild surprise,
And a smile stole up to his deep blue eyes;
For the glass was all wrought into landscapes white,
As if formed of feathers of fleecy light!
Willy knew by the tracery, strange and fair,
That a queer little artist, called Frost, had been there,
And he cried out, ('twas naughty to swear so!) “by Jindo!
I know who it is that's been painting my window!”
He thought he spied him outside of the pane—
That funny old man—when he looked again;
With his twinkling eyes, keen, cold, and bright,
His pallet of pearl, and pencil of light,
His snow-feather pinions with moonbeams inlaid,
And his three-cornered cap of a diamond made.
He looked hard at Willy, as much as to say,
“I would give my best icicle, only to play
With your wild, bright hair, or your cheek's warm rose,
Or to bite but the tip of your dear little nose!”
And Will caught the meaning that lurk'd in his eye,
And shook his rich curls, as he laughed in reply,—
“No, no! Mr. Frost! you may peep, if you please,
Over the mountains and through the trees;
You may float in the clouds, through the deep midnight,
And play with your jewels of rainbow light;
You may dance on the lake with your twinkling feet,
Till it harden beneath them—a silver sheet;
You may wave your wings o'er the woodland bloom,
And sprinkle their sparkles amid the gloom,
Till the whole wide forest, from giant-pine
To baby-bush, with your snow-plumes shine!
You may look on the rivulet murmuring by,
Till you charm it to sleep with your clear, cold eye,
And bid it forget its flowing;
You may do what you will, and I shall not fear,—
For I am determined you shan't come here;—
Mother! how cold it is growing!—
No, no! Mr. Frost! you may bite, if you please,
The poor, little, shivering buds on the trees;
You may dig, with the point of your cap, in the earth,
Till you come to the place where the flowers have birth,
And tell them they mustn't come up,—if they do,
You'll pinch them all, till they're black and blue,—
You may frighten the lilies and roses;
You may bite the bush—the vine—the tree;
But, Mr. Jack Frost! if you dare to bite me!—
Mother! how cold my nose is!—
No, no! Mr. Frost! you may eat the grass;
You may try your teeth upon window glass,
Since you must do some mischief or other;
You may swallow the stream; and the deep, full sea,
You thirsty old fellow, your drink may be!
But, Jonathan Frost! you shall not eat me!
Oh! give me my breakfast, mother!”

The milk was lifted for Willy to sip;
But he felt just then, on his soft, warm lip,
A tiny touch from a hand of ice,—
And he put it away from his mouth in a trice.
What do you think he found in his cup?
Shining and shivering, icy and bony,—
The pert, little iceman, himself, peeped up,—
Mr. Jonathan Frost, “in propria personæ!”
Willy lifted the bowl,—one draught he drew,—
“And pray, Mr. Jack Frost! where are you?
You needn't go diving and glancing about,
As if you expected to slide yourself out!”
Ah! Willy! he drained the sweet cup with delight!
But when he had finished, he stared in affright!—
He thought he should find him all snugly curl'd up,
The poor little painter, within the deep cup;
But no!—he had vanished!—no trace was there!
And Willy looked, vainly, to earth and to air;—
“He jumped from it while I was drinking, I know;
Mother, dear mother, did you see him go?
You're a coward, Jack Frost! and the next time I meet you,
If you dare touch my breakfast,—you see'f I dont eat you!”