"Small habits well pursued betimes May reach the dignity of crimes."

Thoring Thong

In Winter when the snow is on the ground,

The poet's sap is low, his spirits drag;

Our Harvard warbler makes a rhyming sound

But cannot for his life think up a gag.

But when at last the birds begin to sing.

And every songster calls unto his mate,

"Up! up!" he cries, "I'll gush a song to Spring!"

And lisps his lines to Mother Advocate:

Lo! Thpring hath come, ath everybody theeth!

The robbin thkip-th and thing-th among the grathth,

The thquirrel thit-th and thqueek-th up in tile treeth,

The thun ith warm, ath ith my thunny lathth.

She thqueetheth my hand,

I gathp with delight: