Winter Bells. 39 



divine the feelings of the birds that enliven such 

 a place as this. You may come here and, after 

 one swift glance, mutter "weeds and water," 

 and go away, having spoken the simple, sober 

 truth ; true as when you say of a city, " bricks 

 and mortar." Having but his flesh and bones 

 before you, can you say, " here is a man" ? Lit- 

 erally true of where I am at present, weeds and 

 water, but if forced to seat yourself at the foot 

 of a tree and hold a weed before your eyes ; to 

 count its joints and branches ; to note each 

 frost crystal that clings to it ; you will likewise 

 be forced to admit that a weed in winter is not 

 merely decaying vegetation. Its summer fresh- 

 ness may be gone, but its winter suggestiveness 

 remains until summer comes again and appeals 

 as strongly to those who love Nature not as she 

 is at times, but as she is always, and can fairly 

 shout for joy when the bright sunshine holds 

 all shadows back and winter bells are ringing. 



If obstinate to the point of seeing no beauty 

 in a weed, may not water hold you a moment ? 

 It is not always as terrifying as the ocean in a 

 storm or lifeless as in a muddy mill-pond. Here 

 is something akin to neither extreme, a spark- 



