Which of the speakers in this poem calls this quiet snow-bound cottage across the frozen lake home?

Winter Landscape Clip Art from a Victorian Scrapbook

It Snows

It snows! cries the School-boy, “Hurrah! and his shout
Is ringing through parlor and hall,
While swift as the wing of a swallow, he’s out.
And his playmates have answered his call;
It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy;
Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow,
Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy,
As he gathers his treasures of snow;
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heir,
While health, and the riches of nature, are theirs.

“It snows!” sighs the Imbecile, “Ah!” and his breath
Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight:
While, from the pale aspect of nature in death
He turns to the blaze of his grate;
And nearer and nearer his soft-cushioned chair
Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame;
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
Lest it wither his delicate frame;
Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

“It snows! cries the Traveler, “Ho!” and the word
Has quickened his steed’s lagging pace;
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;
For bright through the tempest his own home appeared,
Ay, through leagues intervened he can see;
There’s the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
And his wife with her babes at her knee;
Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,
That those we love dearest are safe from its power!

“It snows!” cries the Belle, “Dear, how lucky!” and turns
From her mirror to watch the flakes fall;
Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns,
While musing on sleigh-ride and ball:
There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and mirth,
Floating over each drear winter’s day;
But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth,
Will melt like the snow-flakes away;
Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss;
That world has a pure fount ne’er opened in this.

It snows!” cries the Widow, “Oh God!” and her sighs
Have stifled the voice of her prayer;
It’s burden you’ll read in her tear-swollen eyes,
On her cheek sunk with fasting and care.
‘Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread,
But “He gives the young ravens their food,”
And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread,
And she lays on her last chip of wood.
Poor sufferer! that sorrow thy God only knows;
‘Tis a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows!

Mrs. S. J. Hale, Uncle Herbert’s Speaker, 1886

Victorian Children Ice Skating Clip Art

Enjoy this beautiful Victorian era chromolithograph and make up a winter tale of your own. Printable as-is or incorporate it into your next craft project.

It was the afternoon before Christmas Day, and honest John Grahame was packing up his butter tubs and the remnant of his Christmas marketing before returning to his expectant family far off in the quiet country.

All the day long the great market-house had been full to overflowing with an eager crowd of people, busy with the buying of their Christmas cheer; and John’s fat turkeys, ducks, and country, home-made sausages had been so well patronized that not one remained to burden his two strong horses, which has drawn the whole heavy load into the great city on the afternoon previous. Many a kindly greeting of the season had been given honest John by his smiling customers; for Saint Nicholas gives to all who love him a happy face and light heart in this his own festive season.

One thing yet remained to be done, and John would have sooner lost his strong right hand than have neglected this pleasant duty. There must be a nice present bought for the kind wife at home, and stop—a happy thought flashed athwart the good man’s mind. He would buy Margery a new bonnet, for times had been hard this winter, and, although she had made no mention of it, John well knew in his heart that it would be the very thing to please her. Then there was his little Dolly, who, with her eyes as black as a sloeberry and bright as stars in a frosty night, had stood on tip-toe to kiss him as he sat in his wagon well rolled in a blanket to keep out the cold, and who ran down the walk to open the wide gate, kissing her hand to him until he was hidden from her sight by a turn in the road.

“Pussy shall have her doll she has asked for so often and a good big box of sugar-plums, too,” he softly promised himself, a loving look coming into his mild brown eyes; so, calling his boy to finish his preparations for him, he sallied forth upon his errand of love. He strolled along the busy streets, looking into the store-windows with wondering curiosity until a milliner’s display caught his eye, and he paused in front of the window.

His big, burly frame, with its rough overcoat, took up so much room and looked so utterly out of place that many a curious, smiling look was cast upon him. He stood so long a time trying to conquer his diffidence and enter the store that a little street gamin sang out, with a nasal twang, “say, old’un, which suits yer complexion best? Buy the one with the peaked top, old cabbage-head.”

John, thus rudely roused to a sense of his position, shook his big fist good-naturedly at the saucy urchin and entered the store. Good humor and love held high carnival in Johns heart this blessed Christmas-tide, and left no room for unkind feelings for any one.

The smiling saleslady, wondering at her odd customer, displayed several bonnets to John’s astonished eyes, fairly bewildering him with the variety of shapes, colors, feathers, flowers, and the many other varieties that she exhibited to him. At last he sank into a chair, saying, “Well, ma’am, I guess I’ll have to leave it to you; I can drive a plow and manage a farm, but I can’t buy a woman’s bonnet.”

The woman laughed heartily, and, picking out one of quiet gray silk with a red rose and a gray feather, presented it to his tired gaze, and our good farmer, glad to be quit of this Herculean task (worse to him than a whole day’s hay-making), clutched the bonnet box, and without a murmur paid the fashionable price the woman named, only too glad to get off thus easily.

Next came the toy store. There he found less difficulty, and soon picked out an immense doll, almost as large as the human Dolly, and to this was added the box of goodies so dear to the heart of all little ones.

Now then he was all ready, and in another half hour was rattling over the stones of the city toward the country.

The horses, as if knowing whither they were bound, laid themselves to their work right willingly, every now and then playfully turning toward one another and nodding, as if exchanging their ideas on the many queer sights they had seen in the wonderful, great city. John turned up the collar of his overcoat and tucked in his blanket closely around him, for he faced the wind and the sunset sky looked angry and lowering. In fact, in less than half an hour snowflakes began to fall, at first slowly and softly, then faster and faster, until the air grew thick and misty with the quickly falling flakes.

The stout horses bend their heads to the gusts of wind that whirled the snow in their faces, and John urged them on in cheery tones. Once he stopped and lighted his lantern, which he carried for such emergencies, and the rays fell far into the road ahead, just enough to make darkness visible.

As the horses paused at the top of a steep hill to regain breath after their long pull, John thought he heard a feeble cry on the side of the road. He listened intently and heard it repeated. He hurriedly snatched up the lantern and proceeded in the direction from whence the sound came, and there, by the rays of the light he carried, and all cuddles up under a blanket shawl, was a baby about nine months old.

“My certes!” exclaimed John. “I’ve found my Christmas box. Poor, wee lambkin! What hard-hearted wretch left you here to die, poor little innocent?”

The baby stopped crying and looked at him with her finger in her mouth and her great blue eyes fixed, half in wonder, half in fear, on his pitying face. John held out his arms coaxingly, and a smile came over the baby face and “Coo, coo,” broke in lisping tones from the rose-bud mouth. He tenderly lifted the little creature, and opening his coat, folded her close to his great, warm heart.

No sound save that of the bitter wind disturbed the stillness, no track of any living being was to be found, and John, with his burden in his arms, clambered back into his wagon, and, closely nestling the little one, chirruped to his stout horses, that knew the road too well to need much watching.

Wondering, solemn thoughts came to John as he sat there with the baby in his arms, of that other little Baby, who came to this world so many centuries ago that very night; who was born among the dumb beasts and cradled in the manger of a stable, but who withal was Lord and Saviour. And he thought how the very stars had sung for joy, and how a thrill of happiness vibrated from end to end of God’s fair world at the advent of the long-promised King; and as these thoughts came solemnly, sweetly, thronging to his mind, his voice rang out clearly over the stormy night in the dear old Christmas hymn,

“When shepherds watched their flocks by night,”

and he vowed that this Christmas baby should share his home and heart with his own flesh and blood. Presently his voice ceased, and, looking down, he saw his baby fast asleep, her long lashes lying on her soft cheek; and quietly and gently he drew out his warm buffalo-robe and cast about in his mind for a place in which to lay his sleeping charge. The large, empty box, which had borne his poultry to market, caught his eye, and, placing it in his warm, comfortable robe, he made a soft bed for his Christmas present; so he nestled her down among the skins and covered her with his overcoat.

He did not mind the cold, although his face glowed scarlet and he had to swing his arms and slap his hands to keep the blood in circulation; but he whistled merrily to his good horses, that rattled on with increased speed and soon drew up before the gate of his farm-house.

The door was opened and the figure of a woman appeared, peering into the darkness; the light of a candle she shielded with her hand falling upon the black eyes and eager face of Dolly, who stood with her head pushed out under her mother’s arm.

“Margery,” shouted John to his wife, “come see my Christmas box. Give the light to David and let him hold it here in the wagon. Here give me both your hands,” said John, stooping down and helping his wondering wife into the wagon; and there, quietly sleeping, her rosy cheek pressed closely to the soft skins, lay John’s Christmas box.

Her mother-heart was touched, and, opening to this little, homeless waif, she bore her into her happy home, looking already upon her as her own.

Who could depict Dolly’s delight at this “real live baby?” Not even the great magnificence of the new purchase or the purchase of the box of candies could compare, in her estimation, with this newly found treasure.

The baby-girl’s quaint, serious ways were a never-failing source of delight, and Dolly wondered how she ever could have cared for her stupid baby, that could not crow or laugh or poke it’s little fingers into her eyes and pull her hair; and once again Margery and John grew young in watching and guarding their Christmas box.

******

Years rolled on, brining their usual changes of joy and sorrow, of good and evil fortune; had left their traces in wrinkles and gray hairs on the middle-aged, and opened the gates of Heaven to many of the old; had changed romping school-children into strong young men and sweet, winning maidens. But the old farm-house still stood, looking very little older than it did seventeen years ago this Christmas Eve.

Surely Time has dealt gently here; there sits John, as ever—his hair more thickly mixed with gray, his brow more wrinkled, but with a soft sadness in his eyes that was new to them.

A young woman sits by the window trying a close, warm hood on a chubby baby, the very miniature of John, and the young mother is a facsimile of the Margery of old, whom, alas! we do not find. Naught but her empty place and a loving memory ever green in John’s faithful heart remains of the farmer’s wife.

“Well, father,” said Dolly, giving her baby a hearty kiss and setting him down on the floor until she tied on her own hood and folded closely her warm shawl, “I must be getting toward home. Ned will be wanting his supper, and it’s a goodish piece to walk against this bleak wind. I hate to leave you all alone, but Clarie will soon be in. So be sure to come to-morrow night after church and we will have a merry Christmas.” So saying, Dolly picked up her fat baby with a loving squeeze, and, nodding gaily, left the house.

“So like her mother,” murmured John to himself, as he turned with a sigh into his solitary home, and, filling his pipe, he settled himself in the warm chimney-corner. The embers glowed brightly on the hearth, casting a pleasant glow on the shining pewter ranged on the dresser and half illuminating the dusky corners of the large, old fashioned kitchen.

John, gazing into the coals, saw many a pleasant sight. First peered out a smiling baby face; next came a little, golden-haired lassie, with bright, fairy figure, flying down the path with outstretched arms to meet him returning home, tired with his hard day’s work; this faded into slender school-girl, with large, serious eyes, the very color of the midsummer sky, hovering around him with an eager love and anxious to forestall his slightest wish; next came a sick-chamber, with the poor, weary, pain-worn occupant tenderly nursed and soothed by this same sweet face and gentle hand; then a sad and weary time, when all the world seemed empty and his loneliness became all but heart-breaking; but even amid this blackness was the one bright face, ever winsome and kind, and ever striving, with all the might of a loving heart, to fill the gap left by death.

“God bless my Christmas box!” John murmured, softly—when there stole an arm around his neck, a voice spoke in his ear, and a soft kiss fell upon his cheek:

“Why, father, dear, how long have you been asleep! the fire is all out and your pipe, too. They kept me longer at the church fixing the greens than I thought for; you should see how pretty it looks. Hark, father! listen to the Christmas carol! they are practicing it for to-morrow!”

The golden head was drawn closely to the breast where it had lain so helplessly seventeen years ago, and, in the soft gloaming of the twilight, John and his Christmas baby listened with hushed breath to the mysterious, beautiful voices borne to them from the neighboring church.