A Kentucky Cardinal
Dedication This to her from one who in childhood used to stand at the windows of her room and watch for the Cardinal among the snow-buried cedars. I All this New-year's Day of 1850 the sun shone cloudless but wrought no thaw. Even the landscapes of frost on the window-panes did not melt a flower, and the little trees still keep their silvery boughs arched high above the jeweled avenues. During the afternoon a lean hare limped twice across the lawn, and there was not a creature stirring to chase it. Now the night is bitter cold, with no sounds outside but the cracking of the porches as they freeze tighter. Even the north wind seems grown too numb to move. I had determined to convert its coarse, big noise into something sweet--as may often be done by a little art with the things of this life--and so
His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A bolder barne was never born.
"Tell me what men ye ar," he says,
"Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays,
In the spyt of me?"
The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
Yt was the good lord PersA":
We wyll not tell the what men we ar," he says,
"Nor whos men that we be;
But we wyll hount hear in this chays,
In the spyt of thyne and of the.
"The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
We have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way:
"Be my troth," sayd the doughtA" Dogglas agayn,
"Ther-for the ton of us shall de this day."
Then sayd the doughtA" Doglas
Unto the lord PersA":
"To kyll all thes giltles men,
Alas, it were great pitte!
"But, PersA", thowe art a lord of lande,
Dedication This to her from one who in childhood used to stand at the windows of her room and watch for the Cardinal among the snow-buried cedars. I All this New-year's Day of 1850 the sun shone cloudless but wrought no thaw. Even the landscapes of frost on the window-panes did not melt a flower, and the little trees still keep their silvery boughs arched high above the jeweled avenues. During the afternoon a lean hare limped twice across the lawn, and there was not a creature stirring to chase it. Now the night is bitter cold, with no sounds outside but the cracking of the porches as they freeze tighter. Even the north wind seems grown too numb to move. I had determined to convert its coarse, big noise into something sweet--as may often be done by a little art with the things of this life--and so