36 Clear Skies and Cloudy. 



and hovering over the blue-black waters, as 

 fancy pictures foul spirits in a gloomier world, 

 but nothing of all this reaches here. The trees, 

 the earth, the very air itself, strain out all harsh- 

 ness from the crows' ill-natured cries, and only 

 that which is pleasing is heard where the winter 

 bells are ringing. 



I hear the rapid blows upon some dead tree 

 on the hill-side, and I know that the woodpecker 

 is at work, or is it merely noisy sport to him ? 

 The sound brings out to me in bold relief the 

 lonely remnant of the ancient forest, bleak and 

 bare and silent now, save for this bold bird that 

 wakes the echoes, it may be, to keep his courage 

 up. Winter means everything there that we 

 would shun ; the very mosses crack like brittle 

 glass, and no creature ventures now to wander 

 over the wood-path's carpet of crisp autumn 

 leaves. Not a sunbeam turns aside to cheer 

 the woods ; they have other things to do, and, 

 choosing gayety to sorrow, linger content where 

 winter bells are ringing. 



I hear a rustling in the dead grass near me. 

 Soon the gaunt, frail skeletons of a summer's 

 growth are ruthlessly turned aside, and close to 



