CHAPTER XXIII. 



A WALK IN WINTER. 



THE whole range of field, forest, and meadow, with 

 their scattered patches of tangled thicket and lace-work 

 of worm-fences, on which I looked from my study-win- 

 dow, had during a recent January morning a marvelously 

 altered appearance. That the familiar land-marks were 

 all there I had no reason to doubt, but ready recognition of 

 them was, after all, not so easy, when a deep, undrifted 

 snow covered everything. 



"What though an open fire-place and hickory logs were 

 at my disposal ? These are incomparable after sundown ; 

 but it argued no want of love for my grandmother's and- 

 irons, if so early in the day I did not succumb to their 

 charms. Let me first weary myself with a tramp over the 

 snow, which will not last but a day or two, it may be, 

 and gather material for a dream by the blazing hickory 

 logs when it is gone, for the wood will keep. 



Not a sight nor a sound of bird for the first half mile ; 

 and as it was a matter of wading rather than walking, 

 much of the time, I began to feel discouraged and thought 

 of the andirons. But when fairly in the open fields, the 

 snow-crust was firmer, and a change came over the spirit 

 of my day-dream. I heard a bird chirp, and at once felt 

 my strength renewed. Nor does this indicate mania on 

 the subject of birds. To be sure, I could have heard 

 sparrows chirp, to my heart's content, by merely raising 



