March Wind came romping, full of glee,
And he shook the shutters and bowed each tree.
He whistled past steeples, and puffed clothes out,
And tossed the dogs’ hair all about.
He swept through Main Street and rattled the glass
Of every window he chanced to pass,
And then he whizzed through a country lane
And spun every windmill and weather vane.
“Aha!” he cried in a blustery tone,
“Not a single thing will I let alone!”
Then he flew and blew up a craggy hill
And for just a moment paused—stopped still.
And he saw, in a den nest, crouching low,
Baby foxes. “I’ll not blow
On anything so young,” said he.
“Small baby things are safe from me!”
So he flipped about and spun around,
And down the hill with a gusty bound
He sailed and slithered, and off he blew;
And the baby foxes, fuzzy and new,
Cuddled together with soft fox sighs
And quietly closed their sleepy eyes.