"To sleep! to sleep!" called December,
To the cheery young strawberry vines.
"Not a green leaf is left on the maple,
Nor the creeper that round it entwines;
And the song-birds have gone to the South-land,
And the last of the flowers is dead,
And it's time that all good little strawberry plants
Were fast, fast asleep in their bed."
"Who cares?" said they, saucily; "we don't,
Though all that you tell us be true.
We're as wide, wide awake as we can be,
And we won't go to bed, sir, for you."
"Oh, you won't!" and he summoned a snow-storm,
While he laughed with a merry "Ho! ho!"
And in spite of themselves soon those saucy young plants
Were under a blanket of snow.