The Calendar (an Idyll of the Hills) by Irving Sidney Dix

1.

JANUARY

Come walk a mile with me -- 'Tis January; / The knee-deep snow lies heavy on the ground / And hark! -- the icy winds -- how swift they hurry / Over the fields with melancholy sound; / And save these winds or some forsaken raven, / Winging its way along yon frozen hill, / Nature is hush'd -- her dormant image graven / In marble masks on woodland, lake and rill.

And look! -- the trees their naked trunks are swaying, / As bitterly each blast goes howling by, / And hark! -- the music in the hemlocks playing, / Like some lost spirit banished from the sky, / And see the smoke from yonder chimney curling, / Hugs the broad roofs, deep-burden'd with the snow, / While clouds of snow are round the low eaves whirling.

How cold it is! -- Come, let us homeward go / There will we find the cheerful fire still burning, / There ruddy warmth will make our faces glow, / And there kind hearts will welcome our returning; / Come! -- let us hasten through the drifty snow.

FEBRUARY

Come walk a mile with me -- 'Tis February; / The sun is creeping slowly toward the North, / And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry, / And prophets of the Spring are waking forth -- / The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow / Beside his open villa, dark and cold, / And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow, / And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold.

And hark! -- the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly, / And merry chickadees are piping loud, / E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly, / And the great trees are low before him bow'd; / And see! -- the Lady of the South is creeping / Higher and higher -- 'Tis the hour of noon, / And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping, -- / Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune.

Yet, as the sun is with the day declining, / Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West, / Where the snow-fairies are again designing / Another robe for Nature's barren breast.

MARCH

Come walk a mile with me -- 'Tis March and windy, / And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast, / And hark! -- the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday, / Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast; / Louder and louder now the winds are wailing, / Faster and faster wings the frozen snow, / Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing, / As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro.

But see! -- the sun above the clouds is creeping, / And look! -- soft flakes are falling, one by one, / And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping, / While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done.

And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning, / Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills, / And hark! -- the robin from the South returning, / Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills, / And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping, / Gathers the sap that sings a merry song, / While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping, / And noisy squirrels leap the trees among.

APRIL

Come walk a mile with me -- 'Tis April weather; / A voice like Spring is calling: Let us go / Where violets are blooming on the heather, / And song-birds bend the branches to and fro; / For everywhere the very ground is springing, / And everywhere the grass is getting green -- / How can I now -- how can I keep from singing / When all the world is like a fairy scene!

The buds in all the trees, are ripe for bursting, / And fleecy catkins flutter everywhere, / And every little flower seems a-thirsting / For something sweet and beautiful and fair.

But look! -- to Westward -- see! -- an April shower / Sudden has gathered, darkening the sun, / Yet wait! -- beside me lifts a gentle flower, / That lights my pathway, blossoming alone; / And hark! -- O hark, the meadow-lark is singing, / Greeting the storm from yon tall maple tree, / While, like a herald in its homeward winging, / Wheels a lone flicker o'er the darkening lea.

MAY

Come walk a mile with me -- 'Tis merry May-time; / The little lambs are gamboling on the green, -- / Nature is glad -- it is her hour of playtime, / And now, or never, her true heart is seen; / The butterflies are floating down from heaven, / And humming-birds again are on the wing, -- / And the kind swallows, seventy times seven, / Fill all the air with merry murmuring.

And see the lilacs by yon cottage blooming! -- / How sweet the air is! -- sweetness everywhere, / For look! -- rich apple-blossoms are perfuming / This little lane that leads to woodlands fair, -- / Here honeysuckle-bells are softly swinging, / And pink azaleas perfume all the wood, / And, in the trees, the vireos are singing / Incessantly their songs of solitude, / While round the hill, as slow our steps are wending, / We hear a sweet Voice calling, -- "Come, O come!"