 | The Triangular Society |  |
34
SNOWED IN.
All night when the rattling windows ceased a moment to strive and beat,
We heard the merciless wind pursue the whisking, whispering sleet,
And gazing now with the dawn's first gleam through panes by frost impearled,
We see but a waste of whirling white,—what has become of the world?
We heard the merciless wind pursue the whisking, whispering sleet,
And gazing now with the dawn's first gleam through panes by frost impearled,
We see but a waste of whirling white,—what has become of the world?
We open the outer door to meet a solid, snowy wall,
That, uninvited and unannounced, comes tumbling into the hall;
The path from door to gateway is as though it had not been;
And we are lost to the world to-day—cut off—left out—snowed in!
That, uninvited and unannounced, comes tumbling into the hall;
The path from door to gateway is as though it had not been;
And we are lost to the world to-day—cut off—left out—snowed in!
35
There is no creak of laboring teams—no jingle of cutter bells—
No schoolgirl's giggle, and clicking heels—no schoolboy's senseless yells—
There is no sound in the whole long street of whistle, or laugh, or talk,
But shovel responds to shovel again, along the drifted walk.
No schoolgirl's giggle, and clicking heels—no schoolboy's senseless yells—
There is no sound in the whole long street of whistle, or laugh, or talk,
But shovel responds to shovel again, along the drifted walk.
The snow-birds sit in the leafless tree, and laugh at our sorry plight;
Even the postman plays us false, and never comes in sight;
The drift grows deeper across the walk, and deeper still by the wall,
And the milk-boy slights the waiting can, and the clam-man fails to call.
Even the postman plays us false, and never comes in sight;
The drift grows deeper across the walk, and deeper still by the wall,
And the milk-boy slights the waiting can, and the clam-man fails to call.
Between the dwarfed and night-capped posts, the useless clothes-lines swing—
And Monday's clothes will go unhung, for who would wash and wring,
With drifts hip-high in the drying-yard, and never a soul about
To shovel and tread the zigzag paths, and dig the doorsteps out?
And Monday's clothes will go unhung, for who would wash and wring,
With drifts hip-high in the drying-yard, and never a soul about
To shovel and tread the zigzag paths, and dig the doorsteps out?
And hours go by, and still it snows, till the fences stand knee-deep,
And ever between the house and street there drifts a higher heap;
The empty milk-can on the step is hidden out of sight;
We shall have no milk for our frugal toast, no cream for our tea to-night!
And ever between the house and street there drifts a higher heap;
The empty milk-can on the step is hidden out of sight;
We shall have no milk for our frugal toast, no cream for our tea to-night!
36
Snowed in! and we might die to-day, and lie here dead a week,
And who would question our whereabouts, or come to ask and seek?
Not one would wonder where we 'd gone, or when or how we went,
Until the landlord came to bring his monthly bill for rent!
And who would question our whereabouts, or come to ask and seek?
Not one would wonder where we 'd gone, or when or how we went,
Until the landlord came to bring his monthly bill for rent!
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