But it is in “Snow-Bound,” his greatest and most beautiful poem, that we hear of all the pleasant times which the farm boy has in winter, and also all about the members of Whittier’s own family. He begins the poem by telling how the snowstorm came up, and then goes on— Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,— Brought in the wood from out of doors, Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked down the herd’s-grass for the cows. Every farmer boy knows what “chores” are. The fun came the next morning when their father, “a prompt, decisive man,” wasting no breath, said, “Boys, a path!” You must go to the poem itself to read about the Aladdin’s cave they dug in the snow, and the other things they did. “As night drew on,” says the poet, We piled with care our nightly stack Of wood against the chimney back,— The oaken log, green, huge and thick And on its top the stout back stick; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room, Burst flower-like into rosy bloom.... Shut in from all the world without, We sat the clean-winged hearth about Content to let the north wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door; While the red logs before us beat The frost line back with tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed. The house dog on his paws outspread Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons’ straddling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow, The apples sputtered in a row, And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October’s wood. Whittier was nearly sixty years old when he wrote this poem, and perhaps he had forgotten partly the hardships of his boyhood; but the poem is so great because it is so simple and natural and true. It may seem strange that the greatest work of a great poet is no more than a description of his every-day home when he was a boy. Whittier’s home was not finer nor better than anybody else’s home—than yours or mine; in fact, in comparison with what we have, it was very poor indeed. Yet Whittier made this wonderful poem about it. That shows how great a poet he was. Only a great poet could take a barefoot boy, or a snowstorm, or a common farmhouse and write such beautiful verses about it. Think of this carefully, and you will come to understand what good poetry really is. CHAPTER III WHITTIER’S FAMILY