88 DANVIS FARM LIFE 



seeds of the frostbitten hemp, are almost the only 

 ones left. There are no songs of birds now, nor 

 any flowers but here and there in the pastures an 

 untimely blooming dandelion, and in the almost 

 leafless woods the pink blossoms of herb Robert 

 and the pale yellow flowers of the witch-hazel. 



The last potato is dug and stored, the buck- 

 wheat drawn and threshed, the last pumpkin 

 housed, and the cattle have begun to receive their 

 daily allowance of corn-fodder. People begin to 

 feel a pride in the increasing cold, and compare 

 weather notes and speculate and prophesy con- 

 cerning the coming of winter. The old farmhouse 

 is made ready for winter. Its foundations are 

 again reinforced with banking, its outside win- 

 dows and storm-doors are set on their long guard 

 of the winter weather, and all the sons and daugh- 

 ters of the old house have gathered from far and 

 near to hold the New England (now the national) 

 feast of Thanksgiving, and have dispersed. The 

 last wedge of wild geese has cloven the cold sky. 

 There is a wintry roar in the wind-swept hills, and 

 as the first snowflakes and the last sere leaves 

 come eddying down together our year of farm life 

 ends. 



