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1% Son (G. i>ritg, (Eos (£ob, (Eonnrrtirttt. 



I do not like the Summer's sun 



Or Autumn's silver sigh; 

 Give me instead the Winter's cold 



And northwinds blowing high. 



Knee deep I wade across the fields 

 And through the pine groves green 



While sparkles in the crystal air 

 The landscape's silver sheen. 



Tingles the blood from crown to toe 



No tropic languor here — 

 But light and life and ecstacy 



In zero's atmosphere! 



When curling drifts close up the roads 



No bitter exile this, 

 But days of joy and deep content 



And nights of sweetest bliss. 



For in the broad and open arch 

 The back log brightly glows — 



With hickory crackling on the hearth 

 I laugh at storms and snows! 



