^ Cute for Wxntcx 



is left unfinished and time is thrown so much more 

 into the future. There is no past on the farm ; it is 

 all to come; no sure defeat, but always promise; 

 no settled winter, but always the signs of coming 

 spring. 



To-day is the first of January, snowy, brilliant, 

 but dripping with the sound of spring wherever the 

 sun lies warm, and calling with the heart of spring 

 yonder where the crows are flocking. There is 

 spring in the talk of the chickadees outside my win- 

 dow, and in the cheerful bluster of a red squirrel in 

 the hickory. No bluebird has returned yet : spring is 

 not here, not quite, I hope, but it is coming, and so 

 near that I shall drop my pen and go out to the barn 

 to put together some new beehives, for I must have 

 them ready for the spring. Winter ! The winter is 

 almost gone. Why, it is barely a month since I 

 brought my bees into the cellar, and here I am 

 taking them out again — in prospect. 



The hives have just come from the factory "in the 

 flat": sawed, planed, dovetailed, and matched, — a 

 delightful set of big blocks, — ready to be nailed to- 

 gether. You feel a bit mean, keeping them from the 

 children. But the oldest of the boys is only six, and 



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