Dear Group, The phone rang this evening and it was my dear 97-year-old friend Cora. We frequently call each other but tonight she seemed to really need someone to talk to about something pleasant to get her mind off the recent death of an old pastor friend of hers. Well, I was up to it and I steered her away from the subject and we got to talking about the olden days. She told me that when she was a little girl she remembered a very special poem that she had recited in the fourth or fifth grade when she went to school in Wilson, NY. She told me it was by James Russell Lowell and she told me that the title of it was "The First Snowfall." Oh, Lordy, it was MY favorite poem! And Cora couldn't believe it when I told her that it started out with, "The snow had begun in the gloaming and busily all the night . . ." It was the favorite poem of BOTH of us! We compared notes with each other about the poem and she let me know that she remembered the part about the child's grave while I remembered the part about the beauty of the snow and how it was described. I got on the Internet and eventually brought up the poem itself and printed it out for Cora. She can't wait for me to take it over to her so that she can read it once again. And for what it's worth, the poem follows. It's a poem that Cora remembers learning in school and a poem I remember learning in school. Cora is 97 and I'm 69. Is that poem still taught in school? Oh, it should be! It's so beautiful. vee The First Snowfall by James Russell Lowell The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud-like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.