A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



the fox prowls about your premises at 

 night ; and the red squirrels find your grain 

 in the barn or steal the butternuts from 

 your attic. In fact, winter, like some great 

 calamity, changes the status of most crea- 

 tures and sets them adrift. Winter, like 

 poverty, makes us acquainted with strange 

 bedfellows. 



For my part, my nearest approach to a 

 strange bedfellow is the little gray rabbit 

 that has taken up her abode under my 

 study floor. As she spends the day here 

 and is out larking at night, she is not much 

 of a bedfellow, after all. It is probable 

 that I disturb her slumbers more than she 

 does mine. I think she is some support to 

 me under there, — a silent, wide-eyed wit- 

 ness and backer ; a type of the gentle and 

 harmless in savage nature. She has no 

 sagacity to give me or lend me, but that 

 soft, nimble foot of hers, and that touch as 

 of cotton wherever she goes, are worthy of 

 emulation. I think I can feel her good- 

 will through the floor, and I hope she can 

 mine. When I have a happy thought, I 

 imagine her ears twitch, especially when I 

 think of the sweet apple I will place by her 

 doorway at night. I wonder if that fox 



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