DECEMBER 



This afternoon I go to the woods down the rail- 

 road, seeking the society of some flock of little 

 birds, or some squirrel, but in vain. I only hear 

 the faint lisp of probably a tree sparrow. I go 

 through empty halls, apparently unoccupied by 

 bird or beast. Yet it is cheering to walk there, 

 while the sun is reflected from far through the 

 aisles with a silvery light from the needles of the 

 pine. The contrast of light or sunshine and 

 shade, though the latter is now so thin, is food 



enough for me. 



THOREAU: Autumn. 



IO 



A winter neighbor of mine, in whom I am in- 

 terested, and who perhaps lends me his support 

 after his kind, is a little red owl, whose retreat is 

 in the heart of an old apple-tree just over the fence. 

 Where he keeps himself in spring and summer, 

 I do not know, but late every fall, and at inter- 

 vals all winter, his hiding-place is discovered by 

 the jays and nut-hatches, and proclaimed from the 

 tree tops for the space of half an hour or so, with 

 all the powers of voice they can command. Four 

 times during one winter they called me out to 

 behold this little ogre feigning sleep in his den, 

 sometimes in one apple-tree, sometimes in an- 

 other. 



BURROUGHS: Signs and Seasons. 



