15 And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, Lays down her knitting. Uncle John. Listen to me, then. 'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, And long before the great oak at our door Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's side Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt 20 Beside a glen and near a dashing brook, A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren Was heard to chatter, and, among the grass, Flowers opened earliest; but, when winter came, That little brook was fringed with other flowers, 25 White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that grew In clear November nights. And, later still, That mountain glen was filled with drifted snows From side to side, that one might walk across, While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook 30 Sang to itself, and leapt and trotted on Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale. Alice. A mountain's side, you said; the Alps, perhaps, Or our own Alleghanies. Uncle John. Not so fast, My young geographer, for then the Alps, 40 Or where the rivulets of Ararat Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose 45 Saw its white peaks in August from their door. |