WINTER 



a sound of wood-chopping comes from the barn. 

 Across the frozen pond the ploughman of last Winter 

 year guides his horse as he marks the ice for the Tiomand 

 winter harvest. Near the shore, his pronged s ^ orts 

 sticks suspended over holes in the ice, the fisher- 

 man waits expectantly for pickerel. Here and 

 there, with skates and sleds and eager young 

 voices, the boys and girls add a touch of life to 

 what seems almost like death. Occasionally a 

 party of young people on skees transform a snowy 

 hill-side into a scene of unrestrained gayety. A 

 pine-bordered lake echoes the exultant cries of a 

 group of skate-sailers, while along the neighbor- 

 ing river noiselessly and triumphantly skim white- 

 winged ice-boats. But these evidences of life are 

 rare and in the nature of a surprise. 



For the occasional visitor the value of the win- 

 ter walk lies in his immediate surroundings. The 

 intense silence that broods over the snow-bound 

 land is a conscious blessing. The deep blue of 

 the sky and the purple shadows cast by the trees 

 and plants are a feast to the eye. The crunch of 

 the snow-rind beneath his feet and the varied hum 

 of the telegraph wires overhead are music to his 

 ears. 



Many of the oaks are rustling with leather-like Oak-leaves 

 leaves. I do not know why some of the oaks are 

 well covered with dead leaves while others are 



15 



