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November

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!