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POEMS OF WINTER. 



up in plain sight, or is found quietly browsing. 

 A well-sent ball ends the chase, and the labor 

 and fatigues of perhaps weeks are fully recom- 

 pensed. A still-hunt of this description, in the 

 skill required, infinitely outranks the much- 

 vaunted " stag-stalking " in Scotland, and is 

 the noblest of American sports. 



Here, truly, is grand game, and one which 

 could be restored to its former haunts in the 

 Adirondacks with a little intelligent outlay. 

 Native American game abounded in that beau- 



tiful region at no far distant time, and may 

 again, if the men who have charge of the forest 

 commission, and who appear to know nothing 

 of game, would abstain from silly plans of intro- 

 ducing the European boar — a most unattrac- 

 tive and destructive creature, entirely out of 

 keeping with American surroundings. Perhaps 

 some day the example of private preserves may 

 induce the legislature to attempt a restorationin 

 a State park; but until that day comes, the work 

 of destruction in game and forest will go on. 



Madison Grant. 



POEMS OF WINTER. 



THE STILLNESS OF THE FROST. 



OUT of the frost-white wood comes winnowing through 

 , No wing ; no homely call or cry is heard. 



Even the hope of life seems far deferred. 

 The hard hills ache beneath their spectral hue. 

 A dove-gray cloud, tender as tears or dew. 



From one lone hearth exhaling, hangs unstirred, 

 Like the poised ghost of some unnamed great bird 

 In the ineffable pallor of the blue. 

 Such, I must think, even at the dawn of Time, 



Was thy white hush, O world, when thou lay'dst cold, 

 Unwaked to love, new from the Maker's word. 

 And the spheres, watching, stilled their high accord 

 To marvel at perfection in thy mold, 

 The grace of thine austerity sublime! 



Charles G. D. Roberts. 



A WINTER LOVE-SONG. 



THE sad fields, veiled in falling snow, 

 They are not sad to me ; 

 Not chill, to me, the winds that blow, 

 However chill they be : 



The eddying flakes that speed away. 



With music they drift down, 

 Through myriad, lacing branches gray. 



On dead leaves, crisp and brown. 



No bloom upon the whitening hill. 



No green leaf on the tree ; 

 The music is sad music : still 



It is not sad to me. 



For song, with my heart's muffled might. 



Keeps measure, blow for blow ; 

 My love's warm breast is pure and white, 



And softer than the snow. 



Robert Burns Wilson. 



