DECEMBER 
MHATEVER the calendar may say 
| about winter coming in on the first 
of this month (or, with more scien- 
™ tific accuracy, on the 21st), our fee/- 
zmgs do not cross the winter-line until the first 
snow-storm. Be it never so cold, the autumn 
mood will linger on, until a few fairy flakes 
silently but suddenly dispel the illusion, and 
inaugurate the new régime, as the song spar- 
row’s earliest March melody magically opens 
the gate of spring. 
Winter is like the old Norse poetry, ragged, 
and jagged, and barbarously grand. There is a 
certain fascination in the unique and austere 
realities of this bleak and inhospitable season. 
Until one stands in the depths of the woods in 
mid-winter he does not appreciate* how rare 
and peculiarly impressive is the sense of abso- 
lute silence—the soundless, deathly quiet in 
earth and air, against which even his own light 
breathing harshly grates, while his ear seems 

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