SIGNS OF FOUL WEATHER.

 

 

 

The hollow winds begin to blow;

 

 The clouds look black, the glass is low; 

 

Loud quack the ducks, the sea fowl cry,

 

The distant hills are looking nigh.

 

How restless are the snorting swine!

 

Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,

Sits wiping o’er her whisker’d jaws.

 

The smoke from chimneys right ascends

Then spreading, back to earth it bends. 

 

The dog, so alter’d is his taste, 

Quits mutton-bones, on grass to feast.

 

In fiery red the sun doth rise,

Then wades through clouds to mount the skies. 

’Twill surely rain, we see’t with sorrow, 

No working in the fields to-morrow.

Darwin.