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by Annette Wynne

No matter how hard you try,
Old crying wind, you cannot make us cry,
You make the poor leaves sorry—very,
But we shall keep on being merry;
It's good it's true
Not all the months behave like you,
Blowing mean, and blowing cold,
Hurting ragged folks and old,
As if you never would be through;
But never mind,
Right near the end we'll find
A time for all to laugh and play;
You may be all the month unkind
But after all, you bring Thanksgiving Day
And that makes us glad—
And so, cold old month, you're not so bad!

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