by E.A. Stackpole

Now winter's chill has come in from the sea, To sweep across the house-tops of the old town— The island-town, snug beside its quiet harbor. And dry leaves drop swiftly from the cold trees To swirl along the pavement, in hurried flight Before the gusty march of the rushing wind.

The town has taken on its gray, its sober look; Its houses, staid, in dignity of gray and brown; These are the homes of folk who love their hearths Like islanders of old who sought this land. Some houses, closed 'gainst spring's return, stand aloof, Having a lonely look amongst their clustered neighbors.

In the hush of night the houses whisper gravely, Some sigh for old times, others seek the morrow; Many yearn for those who kept the rooms alight In summer's sun-filled, happy, careless days; All speak of great events—a whaleship just returned, A new-born babe, a dying old man, a Quaker wedding.

Now the town settles to its long season, Club-meetings start; the ladies meet to sew, The men will vie at cribbage at the Pacific Club; Masons, Odd Fellows, the K. of C. and like brotherhoods Begin meetings which will launch a winter's cycle; The boys and girls have been a month at school.

Ah, but that those who felt the summer's clime Could know the way of living in this quiet place Now the season's come and times are near to holidays; For here is peace amid the spirit of an older day, And there is time to think again of homely things, Which lend a living touch to a willing heart.

—E.A.S.

The above verse was requested by one of our old Nantucket members. It was originally printed in The Inquirer and Mirror, Oct. 23, 1943.