When gripping wind stirs rustling corn
And leaves come tumbling down,
To scatter mounds of loose debris
Upon the frozen ground- Squirrels curvet through the tree tops,
And scold in raucous din,
At the prowling dogs in pursuit,
And the garishly clothed men. They dangle on the branches,
They search for nuts and corn,
To fill their empty larders,
With the dawning of each morn. Ah! its a harbinger of winter,
When wee bundles of gray fur,
Emerge in tittup fashion
And set the woods astir! |
