In Winter Quarters 



sticks of fire-wood belonging to the 

 "Black Swans," and left them there; 

 the one to furnish food for future 

 annuals, and the other to prepare our 

 welcome when the sun comes back 

 from his long vacation in the south. 

 Plants, as well as plover and other 

 people, have to take their appointed 

 posts, each in turn, as the zero hour is 

 struck and the Eternal wheel goes 

 round. 



Each year we seem to heed less and 

 less the annual autumn call of the city, 

 because you know we have no real 

 home but a bungalow embowered in 

 woodland shades. We love to stay 

 and watch the gold turn into gray, 

 and some day I shall surely wait and 

 watch the gray grow white, for winter 

 is an old, old friend of mine. Nature 

 blows first hot, then cold, while en- 

 gaged in setting her greatest trans- 

 formation scenes. It is in the alternate 

 melting and congealing process that 

 she seems to mix her finest colors, 

 [6] 



