248 FARMING IT 



flashing a lantern over the bins filled with apples, 

 corn, cabbages, potatoes, turnips, and carrots, 

 raised on our own place. 



As we come from the storehouse and fasten the 

 door, night has fallen, the wind is moaning about 

 the buildings, and a few flakes of snow, the ad- 

 vance-guard of the storm, come sifting silently 

 down. We extinguish our lantern, and faintly 

 in the gathering darkness we can make out the 

 dead corn-stalks standing like ghosts of departed 

 summer, while through the black mass of the 

 clustered pines the wind moans drearily. 



Without all is cold and dark and dreary. Within 

 all is bright and warm and comfortable. Sum- 

 mer is gone, but she will come again. Now for 

 the winter and our fire and books. And locking 

 arms with my daughter, I enter and shut out the 

 gathering storm. 



