DANVIS FARM LIFE 59 



uncle's sea-chest, occupy their old corners. The 

 little fireplace is unchanged and on the chimney 

 above it hang, as of old, bundles and bags of bone- 

 set, catnip, sage, summer savory, elder-root, slip- 

 pery-elm, and no end of roots and herbs for sick 

 men's tea and well men's seasoning. There are 

 the same low beds with patchwork covers and by 

 their side the small squares of rag carpet — little 

 oases for naked feet in the chill desert of the bare 

 floor; and the light comes in through the same 

 little dormer-windows through which it came 

 seventy years ago. To this dormitory the hired 

 man betakes himself when his last pipe is smoked, 

 and soon, in nasal trumpet-blasts, announces his 

 arrival in the Land of Nod, to which by nine 

 o'clock or so all the household have followed. 



Where do the birds, who brave with us the 

 rigors of the New England winter, pass the chill 

 nights, and where find harbor from the pitiless 

 storms? They are about the house, woodpile, out- 

 buildings, and orchards all the clear cold days 

 — downy, nuthatch and chickadee — searching 

 every nook and cranny of the rough-barked locust 

 and weather-beaten board and post for their 

 scanty fare; and blue jay, busy with the frozen 

 apples or the droppings of the granary. But when 

 a roaring, raving storm comes down from the 

 north they vanish. When we face it to go to the 

 barn to fodder the stock, we do not find them 



