The Little Artist
Oh, there is a little artist
Who paints in the cold night hours
Pictures for wee, wee children,
Of wondrous trees and flowers,--
Pictures of snow-capped mountains
Touching the snow-white sky;
Pictures of distant oceans,
Where pigmy ships sail by.
Pictures of rushing rivers,
By fairy bridges spanned;
Bits of beautiful landscapes,
Copied from elfin land.
The moon is the lamp he paints by,
His canvas the window-pane,
His brush is a frozen snowflake;
Jack Frost is the artist's name.