JACK FROST’S HAPPY DREAM.
1883.
In his white world of snow by the northern pole—
I can point the identical spot on the map—
Jack Frost became weary of working, poor soul,
So pulled up his collar and pulled down his cap,
And stretched himself down in his hut for a nap.
Soon snoring he lay, and he dreamt a fine dream
Of his antics abroad; of whole streets of glare ice,
Where stout ladies falling unthinkingly scream,
And gray-bearded gallants, exceedingly nice,
Making haste to assist them, are down in a trice.
Of snow drifts and sleigh-loads of people upset,—
Roaring sport for the young, but a grief to the old;—
And flying toboggans—the jolliest yet—
Landing lovers in snow-banks, which out of the cold
The laughing defiants a moment enfold.
At length in his vision he noticed afar
Our Crystalline Palace in grandeur arise,
Till it gleamed in mid air like a magical star,
Creation’s last jewel, a thing of the skies,
And he sprang to his feet in a whirl of surprise.
He swallowed some ice cakes and mounted his steed,
A Storm, that stood ready to serve at his call,
Strong-winded, and shod with such marvellous speed,
That he came like the rush of a huge cannon ball,
Till he brushed the wide border of gay Montreal.
At the Windsor alighting, Jack spied with amaze,
The Palace translucent that rose in his dream,
Its opaline walls and tall towers ablaze
With a light that outrivalled Aurora’s first beam,
And he laughed a huge laugh that was more like a scream.
And he danced and cut capers around the wide square,
Like a harlequin, crowing at times like a cock,
His hands on the snow and his feet in the air,
Till fatigued with his fun, on a glistening block
Of his own manufacture he sank with a shock.
Then he chuckled and sneezed, and profanely made boast—
In spite of the churches that seemed to protest—
That he hoped in an orthodox fashion to roast,
If our Palace of Ice was not truly the best
That ever invited his limbs to take rest.
“And here,” said the fellow, “I mean to remain,
Till this Carnival’s over, and then I suppose
I shall have to be off to the Arctic again,
Where the Wind-god his trumpet in merriment blows,
And scatters my hail and my harvest of snows.”