IN WINTER WOODS 



drifts pile high are the woods wrapped 'in 

 gloom. Then, when the skies are gray and 

 skeleton clouds hang like cobwebs on a wintry 

 ceiling, and the bitter winds blow desolation 

 of wraith-like snow-flurries along the paths, 

 the tall trees mourn. Their branches creak 

 and sway sadly in the blasts. Then the kindly 

 evidence of beast and bird is blotted out by 

 the shifting, furry blankets which tumble 

 among the tree-trunks. And the lack of sun- 

 light is the loss of life. The jay and red- 

 bird dive into densest cover, and the grim 

 old crow huddles somewhere out of the storm 

 as best he can. 



But when the wind dies away and the gen- 

 erous sun dips down to the earth once more 

 the woods are glad again, and many a subtle 

 hint of change is heralded and shadowed 

 forth. There is promise and suggestion in 

 the sun's light whether in January or June. 

 And desolate aisles of the forest flame up as 

 the sleeping colors of some old cathedral's 

 art-stained windows wake when the western 

 fire flares across. Bud and blossom seem near 

 at hand, and a feathery drift of toppling 

 snows might almost be a bank of daisies 

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