CHAPTER XII. 



DECEMBER. 



THE round of the seasons three or four centuries ago 

 was less frequently interrupted, probably, than now by 

 overstaying summer. The Delaware Indians, as has been 

 mentioned, expected at least one snow-fall in November. 

 This year, 1888, we have had next to none even in Decem- 

 ber. It was continually "in the air," so my neighbors 

 averred, but if so, it remained where it was ; but at last, the 

 long threatening clouds assembled in full force. A dim 

 and dusty atmosphere shut out the horizon. The gloomy 

 pine trees' pointed tops trembled, though there was no 

 wind, and a muffled moan filled the long avenues of leafless 

 oaks. Not a bird chirped ; aye, not one hopped from its 

 perch, as I passed them by, snow birds and tree sparrows, 

 as if even they too, although visitors from the north, awaited 

 with fear the coming of the storm. Soon, with no avant- 

 courier to warn, singly, through the locked branches of 

 the thickset trees, sifted the icy snow-flakes. No patter 

 was heard, as of April rain on last year's leaves. They 

 each came silently, glinting a moment in the fading light 

 and straightway disappeared. Then, as the clouds dark- 

 ened, they fell in greater haste, whirling against and at 

 last enshrouding alike tree, bush, brier, and withered wind- 

 rowed leaves. 



The first snow had come, and to-morrow field, meadow, 

 and hill-sides will be new countries to explore. And so it 



