RABBIT'S CREAM. 



Everyone is well acquainted 



With the arts of Frosty Jack — 

 With his etchings on the windows, 



With the tints that mark his track; 

 But the quaint and merry artist 



Has a fancy of his own 

 That is delicate and graceful, 

 But is not so widely known. 



When no green is in the forest, 



And no bloom is in the dell, 

 Not a flower star to twinkle, 



Not the smallest blossom-bell,— 

 Here and there, an herb he singles, 



Brown and dry, and round its stem 

 Fastens, with his magic fingers, 



One great, silver-shining gem; 



Shell-like, delicate and dainty, 



White and lucent as a pearl; 

 Just as though he took a fragment 



Of the mist, and with a twirl 

 Froze it into shape and substance — 



Such a fine and fragile thing, 

 That the fairy queen might crush it, 



If she brushed it with her wing. 



Then he steals away, delighted; 



He has planned a morning treat 

 For a troop who soon will flutter 



Through the wood, on dancing feet; 

 All the little country urchins 



Love to see its silver gleam — 

 Love to fancy it a dainty, 



And they call it " rabbit's cream." 



— Hattie Whitney. 



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