DECEMBER. 311 



found to-day. The last song of this cricket heard this 

 year was October 18th, and my companion caught it in 

 the act. There was not the same vim in its stridulation 

 that marks a hot night in August, but it was unmistaka- 

 bly the same sound ; and with it was heard a full chorus 

 of croaking green frogs, for these, unlike their spotted 

 cousins, croak even during the winter months. 



It was on the eve of a storm when I gathered the 

 wood ; it was raining when I settled by my fire. The crick- 

 ets that I had thoughtlessly left exposed, perhaps to die, 

 disturbed my thoughts. I hoped their sluggish senses 

 might so far revive that they could burrow out of harm's 

 way. Then, for a time a burrowing cricket myself, I wan- 

 dered among the roots of the hill-side trees ; wandered 

 until long past midnight, a victim of my own cruelty ; 

 and then, in very truth, found myself, a chilled mortal, 

 with cold ashes, face to face. 



The lotus and the lily are no more. Through the clear 

 ice upon the meadow pools I can see but shriveled ghosts 

 of noble plants that bore, the summer through, the queen- 

 liest of flowers. The royal lotus, once the pride of Egypt, 

 tall, stately, and commanding ; the modest lily, unassum- 

 ing, but sure to receive its full share of recognition. Now, 

 at Christmas-tide, these flowers are but vivid memories at 

 the best, and the wide wild meadows, save where streakily 

 shaded by the leafless trees, are evenly coated with dreary, 

 death-like brown, nature's funereal tint. 



It is not strange that the crackle of dead grass and 

 rustling of decaying leaves should jar upon the rambler's 

 ears ; they are sounds that would drive him houseward, 

 were it not that from afar come the welcome cawing of 

 the crow, the cracked-flute calling of the prowling jay, the 

 twitter of tree-sparrows, and fife-like exultation of the 

 crested tit. These are sounds to revive the depressed and 



