When Snows Are Deep 



sinuating. A loving tenderness seems 

 to animate each cloud-star as it nears 

 its resting place. With what inex- 

 pressible poetry of motion it wings its 

 way amongst the outstretched waving 

 arms through which it passes in its 

 downward flight. It comes to shelter, 

 save, insure, protect. Some day it will 

 hear a sun-ray call, and disappear 

 beneath the sod to fulfill another pur- 

 pose in the endless cycle of its destiny. 

 Even the birds and burrowing fur- 

 bearers seem to sense in the sky-born 

 visitation a semi-sacred ceremony 

 staged primarily for their own ultimate 

 benefit and comfort. The fox in his 

 lair, the mole in his communicating 

 trenches, the squirrel in the tree trunk, 

 the mouse in his nest, all know that 

 it is the setting of a scene that has 

 grown to be a part of their very lives, 

 without which they would find winter 

 unendurable, and they watch its prog- 

 ress in content from within their snug 

 retreats. When all is over they will 

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