DECEMBER 



I picked up on the bare ice of the river . . . 

 a furry caterpillar, black at the two ends and red- 

 brown in the middle, rolled into a ball or close 

 ring, like a woodchuck. I pressed it hard between 

 my fingers and found it frozen, put it into my hat, 

 and when I took it out in the evening, it soon be- 

 gan to stir, and at length crawled about, though a 

 portion of it seemed not quite flexible. It took 

 some time for it to thaw. This is the fifth cold 

 day, and it must have been frozen so long. 



THOREAU: Winter. 



8 



In the birches, on the grasses 

 Stiffly rising through the snow crust, 

 On the slope of yonder sand-bank 

 Where the snow has slipped and wasted, 

 Rest a flock of trustful strangers, 

 Lisping words of gentle greeting, 

 Rest and find the sun's rays warming, 

 Rest and find their food abundant, 

 Resting, sing of weary journeys 

 From a 'Northland cold and distant. 



BOLLES: The Red-Poll Linnet. 



