A WINTER MOOD 23 1 



on the bottom sway as they do at mid- 

 summer. Dip your hand in the water; 

 it warms more than chills you. Under- 

 neath the bushes the ground-pine is 

 spicy, and the thrifty club mosses make 

 miniature forests. The frailer ferns 

 have vanished, but the hardy asple- 

 niums, aspidiums, and the rock poly- 

 pody still keep their fronds, and the 

 mosses, with their seed-vessels held 

 like fixed bayonets, swarm in armies 

 and flourish where the surface is grass- 

 less. Mats of Sphagnum cover the bog, 

 and cupped lichens fill in the cracks 

 of the rocks and gnarled trees. 



Stop! here by the wall, in a sun- 

 streak, the witch-hazel shows its gold 

 threads; pause as you pass, and listen 

 to its story of the winter-opening 

 flower, of youth in old age. 



Zigzag goes the lane to the top of 

 the hill; a pasture, whose bars were 



