“'Tis a sad story, mates.”—_Marie Corelli._
It's up to me—the winds are chill
And snow clouds drift from o'er the hill,
At dawn the rime is on the grass,
At five o'clock we light the gas,
And long gone is the daffodil.
Jack Frost draws flowers upon the glass
And blasts the growing ones—alas!
Whene'er he comes to scar and kill,
It's up to me.
I run not in the croaker class,
But when I see the autumn pass,
Of crushing woes I have my fill—
To buy a Christmas gift for Jill
A horde of gold I must amass—
It's up to me.
[Illustration]