DECEMBER 



II 



Rigid as iron, clean as the atmosphere, hardy as 

 virtue, innocent and sweet as a maiden, is the 

 shrub oak. In proportion as I know and love it, 

 I am natural and sound as a partridge. I felt a 

 positive yearning toward one bush this afternoon. 

 There was a match found for me at last. I fell in 

 love with a shrub oak. Tenacious of its leaves 

 which shrivel not, but retain a certain wintry life 

 in them, firm shields painted in fast colors, a rich 

 brown. The deer-mouse, too, knows the shrub 

 oak, and has its hole in the snow by the shrub 



oak's stem. 



THOKEAU: Autumn. 



12 



I watch with interest the first tendency to- 

 wards solidification in a stream of water. Notice 

 how sluggishly the current drags along ; how dark 

 and mantling it looks, like some dense liquid 

 slowly cooling off. Large bubbles collect on the 

 surface. Next, fine crystal bayonets and spears 

 are thrust out from the margin, as though they 

 would impale and hold the unwilling current. 

 Dipping reeds and willow whips are soon glazed 

 over, and made the nuclei of small glacial reefs ; 

 the web spreads, and the stream is firmly woven 

 under. 



EDITH M. THOMAS: The Round Year. 



