but without shutting the door. She steps into the background: he advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast.]

OCTOBER.

Crack your first nut and light your first fire,

Roast your first chestnut crisp on the bar
Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher,
Logs are cheery as sun or as star,
Logs we can find wherever we are.

Spring one soft day will open the leaves,

Spring one bright day will lure back the flowers; Never fancy my whistling wind grieves,

Never fancy I've tears in my showers;

Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours!

[Sees November approaching.]

OCTOBER.

Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim

And grim,

With dismal ways.

What cheer, November?

NOVEMBER.

[Entering and shutting the door.]

Nought have I to bring

Tramping a-chill and shivering,

Except these pine-cones for a blaze,

Except a fog which follows,

And stuffs up all the hollows,—

Except a hoar frost here and there,-
Except some shooting stars.

Which dart their luminous cars

Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air. [October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background, while November throws her pine-cones on the fire, and sits down listlessly.]

NOVEMBER.

The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired
Of all that's high or deep;

There's nought desired and nought required
Save a sleep.

I rock the cradle of the earth,

I lull her with a sigh;

And know that she will wake to mirth

By and by.

[Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door.

He knocks.]

NOVEMBER.

Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last :

[Calls out without rising.]

Come in, December.

[He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc.]

NOVEMBER.

Come, and shut the door,

For now it's snowing fast;

It snows, and will snow more and more;

Don't let it drift in on the floor.

But you, you're all aglow; how can you be
Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold?

DECEMBER.

Nay, no closed doors for me,

But open doors and open hearts and glee
To welcome young and old.

Dimmest and brightest month am I ; My short days end, my lengthening days begin; What matters more or less sun in the sky, When all is sun within?

[He begins making a wreath as he sings.]

Ivy and privet dark as night,

I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,
And holly for a beauty and delight,

And milky mistletoe.

While high above them all I set

Yew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale;
Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet
May keep, so sweet and frail;

May keep each merry singing bird,

Of all her happy birds that singing build :
For I've a carol which some shepherds heard

Once in a wintry field.

[While December concludes his song all the other Months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The Twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls.]

PASTIME.

A BOAT amid the ripples, drifting, rocking,

Two idle people, without pause or aim;

While in the ominous west there gathers darkness Flushed with flame.

A haycock in a hayfield backing, lapping,
Two drowsy people pillowed round about;
While in the ominous west across the darkness
Flame leaps out.

Better a wrecked life than a life so aimless,
Better a wrecked life than a life so soft;
The ominous west glooms thundering, with its fire
Lit aloft.

"ITALIA, IO TI SALUTO!"

O come back from the sweet South, to the North

то

Where I was born, bred, look to die ;

Come back to do my day's work in its day,

Play out my play

Amen, amen, say I.

To see no more the country half my own,

Nor hear the half familiar speech,

Amen, I

say; I turn to that bleak North

Whence I came forth

The South lies out of reach.

But when our swallows fly back to the South,
To the sweet South, to the sweet South,
The tears may come again into my eyes
On the old wise,

And the sweet name to my mouth.

MIRRORS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

THE mystery of Life, the mystery

Of Death, I see

Darkly as in a glass;
Their shadows pass,

And talk with me.

As the flush of a Morning Sky,
As a Morning Sky colourless-
Each yields its measure of light
To a wet world or a dry;

Each fares through day to night
With equal pace,

And then each one

Is done.

As the Sun with glory and grace
In his face,