9.  How often since I have been reminded of the fish that I did not catch.  When I hear people boasting of a work as yet undone, and trying to anticipate the credit which belongs only to actual achievement, I call to mind that scene by the brookside, and the wise caution of my uncle in that particular instance takes the form of a proverb of universal application:  “Never brag of your fish before you catch him.”

Definitions.—­1.  Gen’ial, cheerful. 3.  Haunts, places frequently visited.  Con-sid’er-ate-ly, with due regard to others, kindly thoughtful. 4.  Ap-peal’ing-ly, as though asking for aid. 6.  Mod’i-fied, qualified, lessened.  Pro-pri’e-ties, fixed customs or rules of conduct.  Ab-sorb’ing, engaging the attention entirely. 7, Has’sock, a raised mound of turf. 9.  An-tic’i-pate, to take before the proper time.  A-chieve’ment, performance, deed.

XII.  IT SNOWS.

Sarah Josepha Hale (b. 1788?, d.1879) was born in Newport, N.H.  Her maiden name was Buell.  In 1814 she married David Hale, an eminent lawyer, who died in 1822.  Left with five children to support, she turned her attention to literature.  In 1828 she became editor of the “Ladies’ Magazine.”  In 1837 this periodical was united with “Godey’s Lady’s Book,” of which Mrs. Hale was literary editor for more than forty years.

1.  “It snows!” cries the Schoolboy, “Hurrah!” and his shout
     Is ringing through parlor and hall,
   While swift as the wing of a swallow, he’s out,
     And his playmates have answered his call;
   It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy;
     Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow,
   Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy
     As he gathers his treasures of snow;
   Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs,
     While health and the riches of nature are theirs.

2.  “It snows!” sighs the Imbecile, “Ah!” and his breath
     Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;
   While, from the pale aspect of nature in death,
     He turns to the blaze of his grate;
   And nearer and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair
     Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame;
   He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burdened air,
     Lest it wither his delicate frame;
   Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give,
     When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

3.  “It snows!” cries the Traveler, “Ho!” and the word
     Has quickened his steed’s lagging pace;
   The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard,
     Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;
   For bright through the tempest his own home appeared,
     Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see: 
   There’s the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared,
     And his wife with her babes at her knee;
   Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour,
     That those we love dearest are safe from its power!