Grand Haven Daily Tribune  February 15, 1898

The Hunton home - without the snow.

The Snow Storm.

—

BY DAVID FLETCHER HUNTON.

—

The “Beautiful” has come today,

And with it comes the roaring wind;

It does not seem to want to lay—

To waywardness it is inclined:—

Some deem it good—and some a curse

Especially within the town!

Some flakes, like fairies, seem to glide,

Down from the heavens dim and gray:

Some come like lovers, side by side,

And loiter on their downward way:—

The most of them, come down in haste,

And as if “spoiling for a fight!”

Some come as if they had been chased

By demons from the upper height!

They veil the sun, and moon, and stars,

And hide the river, and the plain;

They lay in curves, and drifts and bars,

And make the traveler complain;—

All business suffers much delay—

For days the steamers dare not go!

The lumber—sleds—the horse and sleigh,

Are incommoded by the snow.

Still, the hurrying hosts come down,

And with it comes a shrieking blast;

All day—all night—over the town,

The, “Beautiful” is falling fast!

*      *      *      *      *

The storm has past—the wind’s gone down—

Our shade-trees, writhe and bend no more:

Many a store-sign’s on the ground,

‘And “solid whiteness: blocks the door!

The haystack looks like “Bennet’s Hill,”

Since that terrific six days blow;

The air is sharp—the wind is chill,

The earth seems shrouded with the snow!

We fill the stove with good dry wood,

And try to keep the kitchen warm;—

It does not seem to do much good—

We’re shivering prisoners of the storm!

Our good dog “Danger,” whines and shakes,

His teeth are chattering in his head,

The old cat, chews a piece of steak,

So tough, she wishes she were dead!

The hen-coop’s bastioned all around—

The kennel, stands a graceful thing;

The shed, with minarets is crowned,

The out house, has a Chinese wing!

The tall pine stumps—they look like ghosts!

The corn-crib, like a haystack stands;

And each one of the clothes line posts,

Look like a steeple, tall and grand!

Drifts, like young sand dunes, cross the road,

Hobgoblins, straddle o’er the roof;

The sty, looks like a monster load—

We cannot see one cloven hoof.

We make a tunnel through the snow,

From house to barn, and arched o’erhead;

Before the cattle ever know,

That everybody is not dead!

After we shovel all day long,

To cut the solid snow banks through,

The “rooster” brings his wives along,

And promptly asks,—“How do you do?”

The Jersey heifer, whisks her tail—

Lashes her sides at every swing!

She tries her bow, it does not fail—

But how she makes the stanchions ring!

The pony, whinnies for his feed,

And shakes the hayseed from his hair;

The turkey-gobbler, calls for seed,

And struts among his harem there!

The barn, has been transformed, and made

Into a church, of classic mold!

It’s sides are faced, are interlaid

With arches, intricate, and bold!

Its Tuscan roof is wreathed around,

With massive cornices, and wide;

It is with many turrets crowned,

And buttressed well on either side!

But when the rains shall come again,

That Tuscan tower will surely fall!

That splendid work!  That marble fane!

Will tumble at the south wind’s call!

Those grand entablatures of art,

Will be dismantled by the rains!

Aye!  Stone by stone, will drop apart,

‘Till nothing but a “barn” remains!

Grand Haven, Mich., February 5, 1898.