The wintry wind sweeps down the plain,
The larches bend like rushes,
The frost makes pictures on the pane,
The torrent wears an icy chain,
The babbling streamlet hushes.
The silent lake is frozen o’er,
One solid flat from shore to shore,
Where every sledge its progress tells
With merriment of silver bells !
The Boreal lights at midnight show,
The stars above us shiver ;
At mom, when to the chase we go.
We see the wolf-track in the snow
By windings of the river.
And then, towards deckining day,
We hasten on our homeward way
To where yon window warms the night
With glowings of a ruddy light !— A.B. Edwards
Spooktober
Spooktober 27 – The Black Monk (2)
Chapter 3 After supper, when the visitors had gone, he went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in. “Here, Andryusha; read father’s articles,” she said, giving him a bundle
October 27, 2026
6:00 am
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