Bleak January! Cold as fate,
And ever colder—ever keener—
Our very hair cut while we wait
By winds that clip it ever cleaner:
Cold as a miser‘s buried gold,
Or nether-deeps of old tradition—
Jeems January! you‘re a cold
Proposition!
You, February,—seem to be
Old January‘s understudy,
But play the part too vaudeville-y—
With wind too moist and snow too muddy—
You overfreeze and overthaw—
Your “Hos‘ler Jo”-like recitation
But hints that you’re at best, a raw
Imitation.
And, March, you‘ve got no friends to spare—
Warm friends, I mean—unless coal-dealers,
Or/gas-well owners, pipin‘ where
The piper‘s paid—above all spielers;
You are a month, too, of complex
Perversities beyond solution—
A sorto‘ “loveliest of your sex”
Institution!
But, April when you kindo’ come
A-sa’nterin down along your roadway,
The Bar is down, and we’re at home,
And you’re as welcome as a show-day!
First thing we know, the sunshine falls
Spring-like,
And May!—It’s warmin’ jest to see
The crick thawed clear ag’in and dancin’—
’Pear-like it’s tickled ’most as me
A-prancin’ ’crosst it with my pants on!
And then to hear that bluebird whet
His old song up and lance it through you,
Clean through the boy’s heart beatin’ yet—
Hallylooya!
June—’Ll, I jest git doped on June!—
The trees and grass all at their greenest—
The round earth swung ’twixt sun and moon,
Jest at its—so to say—serenest:—
In country,—stars and whipperwhills;
In town,—all night the boys invadin’
Leadin’ citizens’ winder-sills,
Sair-a-nadin’.
Fish still a-bitin’-some; but ’most
Too hot fer anything but layin’
Jest do-less like, and the watching’ clo’st
The treetops and the squirrels playin’—
Their tail-tips switched ’bove knot and limb,
But keepin’ most in seuquestration—
Leavin’ a big part to the im-
Maingation.
Now when it’s August—I can tell
It by a hunderd signs and over;—
They is a mixed ripe-apple-smell
And mashed-down grass and musty clover;
Bees is as lazy ’most as me—
Bee-bird eats ’em—gap’s his wings out
So lazy ’at I don’t think he
Spits their stings out!
September, you appeal to all,
Both young and old, lordly and lowly;
You stuff the hay-mow, trough and stall,
Till horse and cow’s as roly-poly
As pigs is, slopped on buttermilk
And brand, shipstuff and ’tater-peelin’s—
And folks, too, feelin’ fine as silk
With all their feelin’s!
If I’d be’n asked for my advice,
And thought the thing out, ca’m and sober,—
Sizin’ the months all at once or twice—
I’ la’nch’d the year out with October…
All Nature then jest veiled and dressed
In weddin’ garments, oranmented
With ripe-fruit-gems—and kissin’ jest
New-invented!
I’m ’feared November’s hopes is few
And far between!—Cold as a Monday-
Washday, er a lodge-man who
You’ got to pallbear for on Sunday;
Colder and colder every day—
The fixed official time for sighin’;—
A sinkin’ state you jest can’t stay
In, or die in!
December—why, of course we grin
And bear it—shiverin’ every minute,
Yet warm from time the month rolls in
Till it skites out with Christmas in it;
And so, for all its coldest truths
And chill, goose-pimpled imperfections,
It wads our lank old socks with Youth’s
Recollections.