The twelve daughters of the year
Twelve daughters, my lady?
--twelve daughters; and that you may not mistake them, listen to their description.
The first is cold, stern and unrelenting in disposition; pitiless and uncharitable; harsh and unforgiving.
Her name is January.
The second, who is very diminutive in size compared to her sister, is frequently worse than January, and always as bad. She persecute the poor and needy, and fills the workhouse with shivering objects.
Her name is February The third is spiteful in disposition, boisterous in temper, and passionate in the extreme Her gusts of anger are like terrible hurricanes which raise the billows of the stormy seas, and swallow up the frail vessels.
Her name is March.
The fourth is capricious and wayward as an infant child; now all sunny with smiles, then absorbed in tears — now singing as gaily as the nightingale, then anxious and overcast.
Her name is April.
The fifth is a bright and laughing virgin, whose hours of mirth and merriment are seldom invaded by a moment of tears and whose pleasure is the cultivation of sweet flowers.
Her name is May. The sixth is more serious and a date than her sister, to whom we have just alluded, She delights in shady groves and the hangs of clear rivulets, where she reads or meditates at her leisure.
Her name is June.
The seventh is hot, fiery and voluptuous; seeking in vain to quench her thirst of pleasure, and only intoxicating herself by the renewal of her enjoyments.
Her name is July.
The eighth is a maiden whose looks bespeak that mellowness which is also to be found on the fruits that hang over her bower or in the harvest, the gathering of which she loves to superintend.
Her name is August.
The ninth is staid and matronly in her deportment, combining the remains of the passions of youth with the discretion and reserve of mature years.
Her name is September.
The tenth is uncertain and mysterious in her conduct; at one moment sportive and gay, at another dismal and frowning.
Her name is October.
The eleventh is inhospitable and cheerless, frigid in manners and cold in heart, without a virtue to speak in her favor.
Her name is November.
The twellth and last is a miserable, shrivelled creature, with bleared eyes, toothless, and tottering in her gait dressed in furs which do not, however, keep her warm, and slipping at every step; icicles sending from her nose; her very breath is frozen.
Her name is December.