V'^ 



WOODMYTH & FABLE 



Hark how they shake all the fir-trees ! 

 See how they stir the small snow-slides! 



TroNK— TRONK-TRONK, and the ice 

 on the lake is a-shiver. 



TrONK— TRONK— TRONK, and the rill 

 that was dead is a-running. 



TroNK— TRONK— TRONK, and the stars 

 are lost. 



TRC)NK —TRONK —TRONK, 



and the sun comes up to blaze on the 

 Chaska-water. Red and gold and bright 

 is the sun, silver the bugles blowing. 



TronK, coming, coming, coming, and 

 the clamor is lost in the northlands. The 

 heralds have sped with the tidings. 



"Coming, coming!" the Cranes are 

 crying. 



"Coming, coming!" the Woodpecker 

 drums. 



Coming, coming ! ' ' the Reeds whisper, 

 rejoicing and rasping together. Only the 



