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.