JANUARY 



9 



This poet, though he live apart, 



Moved by his hospitable heart, 



Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, 



To do the honors of his court, 



As fits a feathered lord of land, 



Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, 



Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 



Prints his small impress on the snow, 



Shows feats of his gymnastic play, 



Head downward, clinging to the spray. 



EMERSON : The Titmouse. 



10 



There is but little life and the objects are few, it 

 is true. We are reduced to admire buds, even like 

 the partridges, and bark, like the rabbits and mice, 

 the great red and forward looking buds of the 

 azalea, the plump red ones of the blueberry, and 

 the fine sharp red ones of the panicled andromeda 

 sleeping along its stem, the speckled black alder, 

 the rapid growing dogwood, the pale brown and 

 cracked blueberry, etc. Even a little shining bud 

 which lies sleeping behind its twig, perhaps half 

 concealed by ice, is object enough. 



THOREAU: Winter. 



