Perchance the snow drift through the tile,
Perchance the evil face of Mars
Peeks in and shows his wicked smile;
’Tis then we dream of other days
When we were free and in the dance,
And followed in the old time ways,
Far from the stable barns of France.
THE MULE SKINNERS
A wet and slippery road,
And dusky figures passing in the night,