Darted his beams within, nor pelting shower Beat through, so closely intertwined they grew. Here entering, Ulysses heaped a bed Of leaves with his own hands; he made it broad And high, for thick the leaves had fallen around. Two men and three, in that abundant store, Might bide the winter-storm, though keen the cold. Ulysses, the great sufferer, on his couch Looked and rejoiced, and placed himself within, And heaped the leaves high o'er him and around. As one who, dwelling in the distant fields, Without a neighbor near him, hides a brand In the dark ashes, keeping carefully The seeds of fire alive, lest he, perforce, To light his hearth must bring them from afar; So did Ulysses, in that pile of leaves, Bury himself, while Pallas o'er his eyes Poured sleep and closed his lids, that he might take, After his painful toils, the fitting rest. THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. _Alice._--One of your old-world stories, Uncle John, Such as you tell us by the winter fire, Till we all wonder it is grown so late. _Uncle John._--The story of the witch that ground to death Two children in her mill, or will you have The tale of Goody Cutpurse? _Alice._--Nay now, nay; Those stories are too childish, Uncle John, Too childish even for little Willy here, And I am older, two good years, than he; No, let us have a tale of elves that ride, By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes of the mine, Or water-fairies, such as you know how To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to wink, And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, Lays down her knitting. _Uncle John._--Listen to me, then. 'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, And long before the great oak at our door Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's side Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt Beside a glen and near a clashing brook, A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren Was heard to chatter, and, among the grass, Flowers opened earliest; but when winter came, That little brook was fringed with other flowers,-- White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that grew In clear November nights. And, later still, That mountain-glen was filled with drifted snows From side to side, that one might walk across; While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted on Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale. _Alice._--A mountain-side, you said; the Alps, perhaps, Or our own Alleghanies. _Uncle John._--_Not _so fast, My young geographer, for then the Alps, With their broad pastures, haply were untrod Of herdsman's foot, and never human voice Had sounded in the woods that overhang Our Alleghany's streams. _I _think it was Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, Or where the rivulets of Ararat Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose So high, that, on its top, the winter-snow Was never melted, and the cottagers Among the summer-blossoms, far below,