The Winter

 

 

 

THE WINTER

The winter does not come altogether un-perceived by us, it warns us by making our days short, cold and dreary.  We miss the sweet songs of our favourite birds, which have flown to some warm region of the earth, delighting the hearts of the depressed and weary people there, by the wetness of their little voices, until it is time for them to return once more to taste of the sweet breezes of the green island or to refresh themselves by plunging into the delightful waters of its lakes and rivers.  The ever faithful little robin stays to console us.  In all its misery chirruping a sweet song as much as asking a few crumbs of bread or hopping along the window sill covered with the soft white snow.  How many cruel boys, after all this, kill or catch in cribs the cold starving little creature.  I wonder what pleasure do they find in doing so?

We cannot amuse ourselves during the winter with outdoor games as we could during the summer.  Our peaceful walks are regular wreckages, the frisking winds moan thro’ the leafless branches of the trees, under which we loved to wander.

Children never grumble about the harsh cold winter as it brings Christmas, the happiest season of the year.  How they long for Christmas morning to see all their presents, and the glorious Christmas tree, also laden with dazzling pictures and ornaments.

How eagerly parents watch and wait for letters from their distant children some of which, perhaps is their first Christmas away from their dear home and parents.

People should always try and help the poor during this season, and in all their happiness try and forget themselves in making other people as happy.

Signed and Dated:   Brigid Ní Mathamáin     4 Deireadh Fóghmhar 1907  (4th October 1907)