In Winter Quarters 



wood standing so serene and steadfast 

 in his spotless garb. Those drawing- 

 rooms are all right for those who have 

 to go. So are the theatres the Shuberts 

 syndicate. But I know people who 

 would be quite as well off if they 

 patronized a snowy woodlot more and 

 courted the streptococcus artificialis 

 less. 



There is a strange, mysterious, sooth- 

 ing quality in the woodland snowstorm 

 that you do not get in the more savage 

 blizzard that blows almost horizontally 

 across a wind-swept prairie. In the 

 forest thicket you feel the presence of 

 all sorts of co-related life. All i? so 

 still, save the tossing treetops. All so 

 tranquil. All so intimate. You are so 

 near the heart of so many things. The 

 spirit of solitude spreads like a benedic- 

 tion throughout the world in which you 

 stand. No dry leaf, or twig, or stump, 

 or stone, or brush, or branch is for- 

 gotten by the flakes. They are so fair, 

 so frail, so pure, impartial and in- 

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