A WINTER'S DAY.

A WINTER'S DAY . THE cock warm roosting 'mid his feathered mates , Now lifts his beak and snuffs the morning air , Stretches his neck and claps his heavy wings , Gives three hoarse crows , and glad his task is done , Low chuckling turns himself upon the roost , Then nestles down again into his place . The labouring hind , Hind does not perfectly express the condition of the person here intended , who is somewhat above a common labourer , — the tenant of a very small farm , which he cultivates with his own hands , a few cows , perhaps a horse , and some six or seven sheep , being all the wealth he possessed . A class of men very common in the west of Scotland , ere political economy was thought of . who on his bed of straw Beneath his home-made coverings , coarse but warm , Locked in the kindly arms of her who spun them , Dreams of the gain that next year's crop should bring ; Or at some fair , disposing of his wool , Or by some lucky and unlooked-for bargain , Fills his skin purse with store of tempting gold , Now wakes from sleep at the unwelcome call , And finds himself but just the same poor man As when he went to rest . He hears the blast against his window beat And wishes to himself he were a laird , That he might lie a-bed . It may not be : He rubs his eyes and stretches out his arms ; Heigh ho ! heigh ho ! he drawls with gaping mouth , Then , most unwillingly creeps from his lair , And without looking-glass puts on his clothes . With rueful face he blows the smothered fire , And lights his candle at the reddening coal ; First sees that all be right among his cattle , Then hies him to the barn with heavy tread , Printing his footsteps on the new-fallen snow . From out the heaped-up mow he draws his sheaves , Dislodging the poor red-breast from his shelter Where all the live-long night he slept secure ; But now , affrighted , with uncertain flight , Flutters round walls , and roof , to find some hole Through which he may escape . Then whirling o'er his head , the heavy flail Descends with force upon the jumping sheaves , While every rugged wall and neighbouring cot The noise re-echoes of his sturdy strokes . The family cares call next upon the wife To quit her mean but comfortable bed . And first she stirs the fire and fans the flame , Then from her heap of sticks for winter stored An armful brings ; loud crackling as they burn , Thick fly the red sparks upward to the roof , While slowly mounts the smoke in wreathy clouds . On goes the seething pot with morning cheer , For which some little wistful folk await , Who , peeping from the bed-clothes , spy well pleased , The cheery light that blazes on the wall , And bawl for leave to rise . Their busy mother knows not where to turn , Her morning's work comes now so thick upon her . One she must help to tie his little coat , Unpin another's cap , or seek his shoe Or hosen lost , confusion soon o'er-mastered ! When all is o'er , out to the door they run With new-combed sleeky hair and glistening faces , Each with some little project in his head . His new-soled shoes one on the ice must try ; To view his well-set trap another hies , In hopes to find some poor unwary bird , ( No worthless prize ) entangled in his snare ; While one , less active , with round rosy cheeks , Spreads out his purple fingers to the fire , And peeps most wishfully into the pot . But let us leave the warm and cheerful house To view the bleak and dreary scene without , And mark the dawning of a Winter day . The morning vapour rests upon the heights Lurid and red , while growing gradual shades Of pale and sickly light spread o'er the sky . Then slowly from behind the southern hills Enlarged and ruddy comes the rising sun , Shooting askance the hoary waste his beams That gild the brow of every ridgy bank , And deepen every valley with a shade . The crusted window of each scattered cot , The icicles that fringe the thatched roof , The new-swept slide upon the frozen pool , All keenly glance , new kindled with his rays ; And even the rugged face of scowling Winter Looks somewhat gay . But only for a time He shews his glory to the brightening earth , Then hides his face behind a sullen cloud . The birds now quit their holes and lurking sheds , Most mute and melancholy , where through night , All nestling close to keep each other warm , In downy sleep they had forgot their hardships ; But not to chant and carol in the air , Or lightly swing upon some waving bough , And merrily return each other's notes ; No ; silently they hop from bush to bush , Can find no seeds to stop their craving want , Then bend their flight to the low smoking cot , Chirp on the roof , or at the window peck , To tell their wants to those who lodge within . The poor lank hare flies homeward to his den , But little burthened with his nightly meal Of withered colworts from the farmer's garden ; A wretched scanty portion , snatched in fear ; And fearful creatures , forced abroad by hunger , Are now to every enemy a prey . The husbandman lays by his heavy flail , And to the house returns , where for him wait His smoking breakfast and impatient children , Who , spoon in hand , and ready to begin , Toward the door cast many an eager look To see their Dad come in . Then round they sit , a cheerful company ; All quickly set to work , and with heaped spoons From ear to ear besmear their rosy cheeks . The faithful dog stands by his master's side Wagging his tail and looking in his face ; While humble puss pays court to all around , And purs and rubs them with her furry sides , Nor goes this little flattery unrewarded . But the laborious sit not long at table ; The grateful father lifts his eyes to heaven To bless his God , whose ever bounteous hand Him and his little ones doth daily feed , Then rises satisfied to work again . The varied rousing sounds of industry Are heard through all the village . The humming wheel , the thrifty housewife's tongue , Who scolds to keep her maidens to their work , The wool-card's grating most unmusical ! Issue from every house . But hark ! the sportsman from the neighbouring hedge His thunder sends ! loud bark the village curs ; Up from her cards or wheel the maiden starts And hastens to the door ; the housewife chides , Yet runs herself to look , in spite of thrift , And all the little town is in a stir . Strutting before , the cock leads forth his train , And chuckling near the barn-door 'mid the straw , Reminds the farmer of his morning's service . His grateful master throws a liberal handful ; They flock about it , while the hungry sparrows , Perched on the roof , look down with envious eye , Then , aiming well , amidst the feeders light , And seize upon the feast with greedy bill , Till angry partlets peck them off the field . But at a distance , on the leafless tree , All woe-begone , the lonely blackbird sits ; The cold north wind ruffles his glossy feathers ; Full oft he looks , but dare not make approach , Then turns his yellow beak to peck his side And claps his wings close to ' his sharpened breast . The wandering fowler from behind the hedge , Fastens his eye upon him , points his gun , And firing wantonly , as at a mark , Of life bereaves him in the cheerful spot That oft hath echoed to his summer's song . The mid-day hour is near , the pent-up kine Are driven from their stalls to take the air . How stupidly they stare ! and feel how strange ! They open wide their smoking mouths to low , But scarcely can their feeble sound be heard , Then turn and lick themselves , and step by step , Move , dull and heavy , to their stalls again . In scattered groups the little idle boys With purple fingers moulding in the snow Their icy ammunition , pant for war ; And drawing up in opposite array , Send forth a mighty shower of well-aimed balls , Each tiny hero tries his growing strength , And burns to beat the foe-men off the field . Or on the well-worn ice in eager throngs , After short race , shoot rapidly along , Trip up each other's heels and on the surface With studded shoes draw many a chalky line . Untired and glowing with the healthful sport They cease not till the sun hath run his course And threatening clouds , slow rising from the north , Spread leaden darkness o'er the face of heaven ; Then by degrees they scatter to their homes , Some with a broken head or bloody nose , To claim their mother's pity , who most skilful ! Cures all their troubles with a bit of bread . The night comes on apace — Chill blows the blast and drives the snow in wreaths ; Now every creature looks around for shelter , And whether man or beast , all move alike Towards their homes , and happy they who have A house to skreen them from the piercing cold ! Lo , o'er the frost a reverend form advances ! His hair white as the snow on which he treads , His forehead marked with many a care-worn furrow , Whose feeble body bending o'er a staff , Shews still that once it was the seat of strength , Though now it shakes like some old ruined tower . Clothed indeed , but not disgraced with rags , He still maintains that decent dignity Which well becomes those who have served their country . With tottering steps he gains the cottage door : The wife within , who hears his hollow cough , And pattering of his stick upon the threshold , Sends out her little boy to see who's there . The child looks up to mark the stranger's face , And , seeing it enlightened with a smile , Holds out his tiny hand to lead him in . Round from her work , the mother turns her head , And views them , not ill pleased . The stranger whines not with a piteous tale , But only asks a little to relieve A poor old soldier's wants . The gentle matron brings the ready chair And bids him sit to rest his weary limbs , And warm himself before her blazing fire . The children full of curiosity , Flock round , and with their fingers in their mouths Stand staring at him , while the stranger , pleased , Takes up the youngest urchin on his knee . Proud of its seat , it wags its little feet , And prates and laughs and plays with his white locks . But soon a change comes o'er the soldier's face ; His thoughtful mind is turned on other days , When his own boys were wont to play around him , Who now lie distant from their native land In honourable but untimely graves : He feels how helpless and forlorn he is , And big , round tears course down his withered cheeks . His toilsome daily labour at an end , In comes the wearied master of the house , And marks with satisfaction his old guest , In the chief seat , with all the children round him . His honest heart is filled with manly kindness , He bids him stay and share their homely meal , And take with them his quarters for the night . The aged wanderer thankfully accepts , And by the simple hospitable board , Forgets the by-past hardships of the day . When all are satisfied , about the fire They draw their seats and form a cheerful ring . The thrifty house-wife turns her spinning wheel ; The husband , useful even in his hour Of ease and rest , a stocking knits , belike , Or plaits stored rushes , which with after skill Into a basket formed may do good service , With eggs or butter filled at fair or market . Some idle neighbours now come dropping in , Draw round their chairs and widen out the circle ; And every one in his own native way , Does what he can to cheer the social group . Each tells some little story of himself , That constant subject upon which mankind Whether in court or country , love to dwell . How , at a fair , he saved a simple clown From being tricked in buying of a cow ; Or laid a bet on his own horse's head Against his neighbour's bought at twice his price , Which failed not to repay his better skill ; Or on a harvest day bound in an hour More sheaves of corn than any of his fellows , Though e'er so stark , could do in twice the time ; Or won the bridal race with savoury bruise And first kiss of the bonny bride , though all The fleetest youngsters of the parish strove In rivalry against him . But chiefly the good man , by his own fire , Hath privilege of being listened to , Nor dare a little pratling tongue presume Though but in play , to break upon his story . The children sit and listen with the rest ; And should the youngest raise its lisping voice , The careful mother , ever on the watch , And ever pleased with what her husband says , Gives it a gentle tap upon the fingers , Or stops its ill-timed prattle with a kiss . The soldier next , but not unasked , begins His tale of war and blood . They gaze upon him , And almost weep to see the man so poor So bent and feeble , helpless and forlorn , Who has undaunted stood the battle's brunt While roaring cannons shook the quaking earth , And bullets hissed round his defenceless head . Thus passes quickly on the evening hour , Till sober folks must needs retire to rest , Then all break up , and , by their several paths , Hie homeward , with the evening pastime cheered Far more , belike , than those who issue forth From city theatre's gay scenic show , Or crowded ball-room's splendid moving maze . But where the song and story , joke and gibe So lately circled , what a solemn change In little time takes place ! The sound of psalms , by mingled voices raised Of young and old , upon the night-air borne , Haply to some benighted traveller , Or the late parted neighbours on their way , A pleasing notice gives that , those whose sires In former days on the bare mountain's side , In deserts , heaths , and caverns , praise and prayer , At peril of their lives , in their own form Of covenanted worship offered up , In peace and safety in their own quiet home Are — ( as in quaint and modest phrase is termed ) Are now engaged in evening exercise In the first edition of the Winter Day nothing regarding family worship was mentioned : a great omission , for which I justly take shame to myself . " The Evening exercise , " as it was called , prevailed in every house over the simple country parts of the West of Scotland ; and I have often heard the sound of it passing through the twilight air , in returning from a late walk . But long accustomed to observe the weather , The farmer cannot lay him down in peace Till he has looked to mark what bodes the night . He lifts the latch , and moves the heavy door , Sees wreaths of snow heaped up on every side , And black and dismal all above his head . Anon the norther blast begins to rise , He hears its hollow growling from afar , Which , gathering strength , rolls on with doubled might And raves and bellows o'er his head . The trees Like pithless saplings bend . He shuts his door And , thankful for the roof that covers him , Hies him to bed .