--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Merrill, H. R. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 22 number: 6 published: 1919-04 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Merrill, H. R., "The Song of the Chinook," *Improvement Era* 22, no. 6 (April 1919): 524.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2206unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2206unse start_page: 524 end_page: 524 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1919-04) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2206unse publication_year: 1919 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1919, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Song of the Chinook ; —— ! The Song of the Chinook O-o-o-h! O-O-O-h! 0-0 OH! My warm breath sweeps the fields of snow As over hill and dale I go I melt the ice-frills from the trees And sift the rain-drops through the breeze; I sigh where rivulets are bound With Winter's chains to frozen ground; I melt the frost links one by one Until the crystal streamlets run! O-o-o-h! O-O-O-h! 0-00-H! At night when all the lamps are lit Around the chimney-tops I flit; I tick-tack on the window pane With mammoth drops of winter rain; I shake the casements and the door. And through the tree-tops wail and roar; I squeeze the water from the snow And puff my cheeks, and blow and blow O-o-o-h! O-O-O-h! O-O-O-H! My voice sounds mournful when I sing, Although my songs are songs of spring; I tell of days when sap will run And song-birds greet the golden sun Of days when blossoms bright and fair Spray priceless perfumes on the air Of days when rose-buds will unfold And love's old tale will be re-told! H. R. Merrill