When frost's all on our winder, an' the snow's <br />All out-o'-doors, our 'Old-Kriss'-milkman goes <br />A-drivin' round, ist purt'-nigh froze to death, <br />With his old white mustache froze full o' breath. <br /> <br />But when it's summer an' all warm ag'in, <br />He comes a-whistlin' an' a-drivin in <br />Our alley, 'thout no coat on, ner ain't cold, <br />Ner his mustache ain't white, ner he ain't old.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/climatic-sorcery/
