THE WINDOW. 



leak winds sing their threatening lullabies, 

 to ghostly music, as they whirl around the 

 acute gables, and dash against the house 

 walls, sighing on the door-sill, whistling through the key-hole> 

 roaring through the wicket, murmuring in the distance, crackling 

 among the ti-ee tops, licking up the snow-flakes, it's a dreary 

 wind that blows, and we hover around the, cheerful fire. Although 

 there is a cheerless prospect without, an opposite scene delights 

 one's Vision in the cottage window. There is " a rose in the win- 

 dow." Not one of those scraggy submissive rose bushes, whose 

 flowers hang their heads because their etiolated stalks are not 

 strong enough to sustain their lovely burthens. The rose in the 

 window has had a loving hand to prune it, and prop it — to water 

 it, and give it sunshine. Fair fingers have pulled off its dead 

 leaves, and sprinkled a shower bath on living ones. The rose in 

 the window has no fear of the icy king Boreas on the other side 

 of its crystal protector, the back-log of tough hickory crackling 

 on the hearthstone has given it confidence, and it goes on daily 

 unfolding bright green leaves, and expanding its fragrant blos- 

 soms. There is perfume ; delicate, etherial, diffusive perfume, and 

 red roses in the window, four in all, and three buds dawning 



