"_Plus seventeen_," I whispered into my waistcoat. "What, dear?" "Merry Christmas to you," I said, bowing over my glass of sherry. And that was my last bargain-hunt. CHAPTER NINE. THE ICE-BREAKING. Down by the woods in the rocky valley, Where the babbling waves of the river sally, Where the pure source gushes And the wild fount rushes, There's the sound of the roar That is heard on the shore, Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore; For down from each hill With resistless will, The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill, And the West has risen with a cry and a shout, Dash'd at the North to the Ice-king's rout; Then off and away, For the livelong day Has rush'd through the woodlands--no longer gay, Splitting the branches; While avalanches Of melting snow Bend the pine-boughs low, And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow. And now once again Comes the pitiless rain, Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain; Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds, And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous sounds On the wintry breeze, Louder and louder by rising degrees. The Ice-king is routed--his reign is past, And the frost-bound river is rending fast; And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough, And the flood tears through with the force of a plough. Splitting and rending, The ice unbending, As with mighty burrow, It carves out a furrow Of churning wreck; While, as if at its beck, The foam-capped streams Loose the Ice-king's beams, And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams, Now sinks--now rises, As each stream still prises, Till the loosen'd river in fury rolls Away through the valley; while icy scrolls Are swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy, And snow-drift and ice joins the West's rude levy; Which at barrier scouts, At each rock mound shouts; Sweeping along towards the land of the plain, Tingeing the waters with many a stain; Foaming along in an eddying sweep, And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep, Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank, And widening its track where the marsh lies dank. Away tears the river With an earthquake's speed, Over the snow-cover'd lowland mead, Laughing aloud at each reckless deed, As the stricken farmers the ruin heed, Whirling along on its bosom the reed And the sharp, jagg'd ice and the harmless bead, With the unchained course of a wild-born steed, Till the hills where it passes quiver.