Nothing is quite so quiet and clean
As snow that falls in the night;
And is n't it jolly to jump from bed
And find the whole world white?
It lies on the window ledges,
It lies on the boughs of the trees,
While sparrows crowd at the kitchen door,
With a pitiful "If you please?"
It lies on the arm of the lamp-post,
Where the lighter's ladder goes,
And the policeman under it beats his arms,
And stamps—to feel his toes;
The butcher's boy is rolling a ball
To throw at the man with coals,
And old Mrs. Ingram has fastened a piece
Of flannel under her soles;
No sound there is in the snowy road
From the horses' cautious feet,
And all is hushed but the postman's knocks
Rat-tatting down the street,
Till men come round with shovels
To clear the snow away,—
What a pity it is that when it falls
They never let it stay!
And while we are having breakfast
Papa says, "Isn't it light?
And all because of the thousands of geese
The Old Woman plucked last night.
"And if you are good," he tells us,
"And attend to your A B C,
You may go in the garden and make a snow man
As big or bigger than me."