they are bewitching and satisfying. Who knows not the sycamore is to 

 be pitied? He has missed so much 



"The pillared dusk of sounding sycamores," 



of which the laureate sings, is not so beauty-burdened as the stately 

 temple-pillars, lifting taper marble up as worthy for some Phidias to 

 plant upon their Doric trunks some stately frieze wrought into pana- 

 thenaic processions. Who would have thought of such a thing as a 

 sycamore, save God only? 



"The birds and beasties " of winter woods are accessories not to be 



forgotten "Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang," 

 are visible in plenty. In summer these nests were hid from the eyes "of 

 the wise and prudent," but now are open to everybody's gaze. There 

 is no secrecy. In the leafless hedgerow is the thrush's nest, and down 

 by the stream is the bluebird's house, and the crow's log-house of knotty 

 and unworkmanlike construction is seen from the treetops. Crows are 

 bold builders. They haunt treetops as swallows the eaves. These nests 

 seem so ill-built that one would tumble down if a flapping wing of its 

 own builder were to cuff it unwarily, but, as experience shows, are so 

 sturdily constructed that all the winter's tempests leave them in good 

 repair. These crows are deceiving folks. We thought they tumbled 

 their houses together in an unworkmanlike fashion, when lo, we found 

 they built against seasons and naked winters, and storm-wind's brow- 

 beating. And the crow is in the- winter woods. His Satanic blackness 

 glares through the naked woods, and makes a sort of plaintive picture. 

 He flies low over the trees of winter and settles often for caucus or 

 religious meeting, I really never have been able to tell which. But I 

 am not his chaplain ; so it makes not much matter. 



And the redbird flings himself through the network of branches, 

 like a firebrand borne by daylight; and his whistle is always as from a 

 cheery heart. The cardinal is warming to the eyes, and his carelessness 

 of weather makes him to me fraternal. I defy weather, only asking 

 that there be weather. The kind is not for rne to say, seeing I am not 

 the weather bureau; but some kind of weather, fair, foul, wintry, windy, 

 quiet; snow, rain, sleet, are little odds to me; I enjoy them all, and go 

 out in one with the same delight as in the other. Each has its impact 

 with my spirit. The cardinal cheers himself not with the hope of spring 

 coming, but with the delight of winter here. All seasons make love to 

 him and he to all seasons ; and when he flings his torch across the gray- 



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