. St. Nicholas [serial] . now. And all the snow before my doorIs crimson, where they stood;And there has sprung a little roseFrom every drop of blood ! And what is this ? the old wife cried; For, everywhere they pass,Gold crocus-buds pierce thro the snow,And spears of summer grass. Ah, woe is me ! Now theyare gone,I fear I ve worked me ill;I fear these were two an-gel-folk,From off the Holy Hill. She turned herself, the fireburned bright,The kettle oer it hung, Ah, woe is me ! the oldwife cried,For it no longer sung. She heaped dry brancheson the fire,The flames began to roar, Now I m undone !

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. St. Nicholas [serial] . now. And all the snow before my doorIs crimson, where they stood;And there has sprung a little roseFrom every drop of blood ! And what is this ? the old wife cried; For, everywhere they pass,Gold crocus-buds pierce thro the snow,And spears of summer grass. Ah, woe is me ! Now theyare gone,I fear I ve worked me ill;I fear these were two an-gel-folk,From off the Holy Hill. She turned herself, the fireburned bright,The kettle oer it hung, Ah, woe is me ! the oldwife cried,For it no longer sung. She heaped dry brancheson the fire,The flames began to roar, Now I m undone ! the old wife cried, The kettle sings no more. She turned her to her spin-ning-wheel,And tried her flax to spin,But every time she touchedthe threads,She snarled them out and in. In vain she tried to twirl the wheel; Quoth she, My day has come ; My kettle will no longer sing, My wheel no longer hum. Hard, in the frosty morn-ing, staredThe neighbors passing by,For, from the old wifeschimney, curledNo smoke against the

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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidstnicholasse, bookyear1873