For, lo, the winter is past, 

 The rain is over and gone — 



yet the snow lies white upon the fields, my little 

 river huddles under the ice, and a new calendar 

 hangs against the faded wall. But the storm is spent, 

 the sun is out, there is a cheery dn/>, drip, drip from 

 the eaves, eggs are sixty cents a dozen, and I am 

 writing to the golden cackle of my hens. New Year's 

 Day, and winter gone ! No, not quite gone, with eggs 

 at such a price ; still, it must be plain to every one 

 that I can have but little of winter left : eggs are 

 liable to come down any day. 



It would be different, of course, were I buying 

 eggs at sixty cents, — all the difference between a 

 winter-sick and a winter-well condition. Selling eggs 



35 



