132 The Life Worth Living 



at me in terror. No, she shall not suffer: I 

 love her — and she cannot understand. 



The water is dark in the middle of the 

 river, and I see a widening fringe of ice along 

 the shores. The creek that flows through the 

 lawn is dead and motionless — a flashing sheet 

 of ice. The fountains are still and frozen. 



The birds huddle about the door, silent 

 and dazed. I hasten down to grind some 

 corn for them and pour it in heaps in the 

 sheltered places. They find it quickly. The 

 redbirds are first; the larks come in droves 

 and eat as though they are starved; and, 

 last, the mockingbirds and wrens. 



I place one pile deep down in the glade 

 behind the garden for the quail I have left 

 to breed two coveys for the next season in 

 the orchard. 



I tramp through the snow back to the 

 house, still struggling with a sense of vague 

 uneasiness. 



Tired of watching the fire, I go to the 



