Ill 

 Cur for TtHnfer 



FOR, lo, the winter is past, 

 The rain is over and gone 



yet the snow lies white upon the fields, my little 

 river huddles under the ice, and a new calendar 

 hangs against the faded wall. But the storm is spent, 

 the sun is out, there is a cheery drip, drip, drip from 

 the eaves, eggs are sixty cents a dozen, and I am 

 writing to the golden cackle of my hens. New Year's 

 Day, and winter gone ! No, not quite gone, with eggs 

 at such a price ; still, it must be plain to every one 

 that I can have but little of winter left : eggs are 

 liable to come down any day. 



It would be different, of course, were I buying 

 eggs at sixty cents, all the difference between a 

 winter-sick and a winter-well condition. Selling eggs 



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