So high, that, on its top, the winter snow Was never melted, and the cottagers Among the summer blossoms, far below, Saw its white peaks in August from their door.

One little maiden, in that cottage-home, Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb,

Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there,

Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves,
And sometimes she forgot what she was bid,
As Alice does.

Alice.
Or Willy, quite as oft. 51
Uncle John. But you are older, Alice, two
good years,

And should be wiser. Eva was the name

Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, And moulding little snow-balls in their palms,

And rolling them, to crush her flowers below,

Down the steep snow-fields.

Alice.

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That, too, must have been

A merry sight to look at.
Uncle John.
You are right,
But I must speak of graver matters now.
Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood,
Within the cottage, all prepared to dare
The outer cold, with ample furry robe
Close-belted round her waist, and boots of
fur,

And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand

Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. Now, stay not long abroad,' said the good dame,

For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well,

They stood, and gazed at her who never

more

Should look on them. 'Why die we not with her?'

They said; Without her, life is bitterness.' Now came the funeral-day; the simple folk

Of all that pastoral region gathered round
To share the sorrow of the cottagers.
They carved a way into the mound of snow
To the glen's side, and dug a little grave
In the smooth slope, and, following the bier,
In long procession from the silent door, 301
Chanted a sad and solemn melody:

Lay her away to rest within the ground. Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life

Was spotless as these snows; for she was reared

In love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring,

And all that now our tenderest love can do

Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs.'

They paused. A thousand slender voices round,

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