242 Bird-Land Echoes. 



tapering crystal spires. Crowding as they did the 

 uneven fields and jostling each other in their down- 

 ward rush, the snow-flakes made no sound. The 

 dry, unyielding leaves bent to the burdens laid upon 

 them, but there was no snapping of the stems. The 

 trees along the headlands were being clothed anew, 

 but as silently as the leaf-buds break their bonds in 

 May. The brown, frost-bitten landscape of yester- 

 day was a thing of the past, when, before the sun 

 rose in the clouded east, I ventured out of doors. 



The old man's prediction was already verified, 

 but, not content with the steady storming through a 

 long winter's night, the snow was still making good 

 what Miles Overfield had said. Not only was I to 

 wade through fallen snow, but the air was still murky 

 with the falling flakes. Miles's words had been. 

 "You'll wade through a snow-storm." The smoke 

 was curling from his chimney-top as I passed, and 

 perhaps he was muttering, if he saw me, *' I told 

 him so." Miles was a man to make you believe in 

 witchcraft. 



It is well that the world is not forever naked. For 

 many a month there had been the bare fields, the 

 leafy and now open woods, the grassy meadows, and 

 the weedy pastures. Now for a change ! The ruins 

 of a riotous summer were mantled, and it was as a 

 new world. An uncertain foothold is not conducive 

 to serenity of temper, but the rambler who is dis- 

 turbed by such small matters should let his more 

 venturesome brother break a path for him. I was 

 not to walk to-day, but to wade. I made no com- 



