_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, Saw its white peaks in August from their door. [Illustration] One little maiden, in that cottage home, Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean waves, And sometimes she forgot what she was bid, As Alice does. [Illustration] _Alice._-- Or Willy, quite as oft. _Uncle John._--But you are older, Alice, two good years, And should be wiser. Eva was the name Of this young maiden, now twelve summers old. Now you must know that, in those early times, When autumn days grew pale, there came a troop Of childlike forms from that cold mountain top; With trailing garments through the air they came, Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threw Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, And edged the brook with glistening parapets, And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool, And turned its face to glass, or, rising thence, They shook, from their full laps, the soft, light snow, And buried the great earth, as autumn winds Bury the forest floor in heaps of leaves. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration]