But there, Sandy's home a year after showed the effect of his meeting with the Christmas spirits, for it was well-furnished, and his wife looked happy, plump, and rosy--another woman, in fact; while as to people saying that Sandy fell down drunk in the churchyard, and that it was the little snow storm that he saw, why that's all nonsense; the story must be true, for a man picked up Sandy's old hat just by the swing-gate, where it fell off when he felt the spirit's breath. And as to there being no spirits out at Christmas-time, why I could name no end of them, such as love, gratitude, kindness, gentleness, good humour, and scores more with names, besides all those nameless spirits that cluster round every good, true, and loving heart at Christmas; ay, and at all times. While among those who have listened to this story and thought of its moral, surely there is at this moment that most gracious of spirits--Forbearance. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. KING BOREAS. Away with a shout and a shriek from the North, The host of the Storm King in rage hurries forth; With the monarch to lead them away o'er the main, Sweep with whistle and wild shriek the winterly train. O'er the sea, o'er the waves that spring tossing in wrath, To fly after the host in a storm of white froth, Till they dash in their anger on sand-hill and rock, Or make some ship shiver, and groan with their shock. Away rush the train with a howl 'mid each cloud, That no longer moon-silvered floats massive and proud; But torn by the Storm King, and rent by his crew, Wild and ragged scuds onward in murkiest hue. 'Mid the rocks, through the caves that o'er ocean's waves scowl, Away speeds the King, and his followers howl As they toss the dark sea-weed, and tear up the sand, Which flies frightened in drifts at the touch of their hand. And away, and away, where the forest trees wave, Where the willow and silver birch drooping boughs lave In the silver-like stream, in the mossy green vale, That ere yet the storm cometh breaks forth in a wail. Now crashing 'mid beech-tops, now rending the oak, Then laying the larch low with mightiest stroke; While through the frail willow the storm spirits tear, And the boughs stream aloft like a maniac's hair. Rejoicing and shrieking anew at each feat, Away o'er the moorlands, away sharp and fleet; By the cotter's low hovel, the steep-cresting mill, To the town by the hill-slope, as yet calm and still. Bursting now o'er the roofs with a brain-piercing yell, Round the old abbey towers they mock at each bell As the past hour's chimed, when they sweep off the tone, And away o'er the woodlands the summons has flown. Again with a shriek, and again with a cry, The King and his crew keep their revel on high; They bear the cold snow-drift aloft in their train, The sleet-darting arrow, and icy North chain.