THE MAKING OF MILKANWATHA'S
MITTENS
Of the squirrel's skin Marcossett
Made some mittens for our hero;
And she put the fur side inside,
Put the fur side next his fingers,
For to keep his hands warm inside,
That was why she put the fur side,
Why she put the fur side inside.
She, to get the warm side inside,
Put the cold side, skin side outside.
She, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side, fur side inside,
Put the inside on the outside,
Put the outside on the inside,
Thus she made them outside inside,
Made them truly inside outside.
HOW ABOUT OURS?
Mark Twain gave it as his opinion that nothing in the world so much needs reforming as other peoples' habits.
Do we agree with him?
I have generally found that a man who is good at excuses, is good at nothing else.
Ben Franklin
WORTH CONSIDERING
Have you ever rightly considered what the mere ability to read means? That it is the key that admits us to the whole world of thought and fancy and imagination; to the company of the wisest and wittiest at their wisest and wittiest moment?
THE FIREPLACE ON A WINTER'S
NIGHT IN THE OLDEN TIME
As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,—
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed,
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andiron's straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.
What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north-wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow,
The bull's eye watch that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely-warning sign
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
If any of our readers are interested to know from what sources these selections are taken they may ascertain same by applying to the Editorial Department of "The Gillette Blade."
