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 ^onsand 

 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 



