  Into my disappointment-cup The snowflakes fell and blocked the road, And so I thought I'd finish up The latest style of Christmas ode; When she, the charming little lass With eyes as bright as isinglass, Before a line my pen had wrought In strange attire came bounding in, As if she had with Bruno fought, And robbed him of his shaggy skin. In her bewitching "blanket-suit," In moccasin and toggery, All ready for "that icy chute," And asked me if I thought she'd do; I shake with love of mischief true: "For what?—a polar bear?—why, yes!" "No, no!" she said, with half a pout. "Why, one would think so, by your dress— Say, does your mother know you're out?" "No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed; "Because the storm so wildly raged— But for the first delightful ride For half a year I've been engaged." "Engaged to what?—an Esquimau? To ride a glacier, or a floe?" "Why, don't you know"—her color glowed, In expectation all agog— "The reason why I'm glad it snowed? Because—I'm going to tobog." |
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