44 DANVIS FARM LIFE 



the troubadours are gone. He sees that the brave 

 little chickadee remains faithful to his post, and 

 feels that his cheery note enlivens a little the 

 dreariness of winter, as does the reedy piping of the 

 nuthatch and the voice of the downy, fuller of 

 life than of music, and the discordant note of the 

 blue jay, who, clad in a bit of summer sky, loudly 

 proclaims his presence; but the singers are gone 

 and the farmer misses them. 



Winter is fairly upon us at last, though by such 

 gradual approaches has it come that we are hardly 

 aware of its presence, for its white seal is not yet 

 set upon the earth. Till then we have a feeling 

 that the fall is not over. The mud of the highways 

 is turned to stone, the bare gray trees and dun 

 fields have no semblance of hie in them, and the 

 dull, cold sky and the black-green pines and hem- 

 locks look colder than snow. The Thanksgiving 

 turkey has been disposed of, and the young folks 

 begin to count the days to Christmas. The old 

 house has been "banked" for weeks, making the 

 cellar a rayless dungeon, from which cider and 

 winter apples are now brought forth to help while 

 away the long evenings. At no time of the day is 

 the fire's warmth unwelcome. But no snow has 

 come except in brief flurries; and the cattle are 

 out on the meadows in the daytime cropping the 

 withered aftermath, and the sheep are yet in the 

 pastures or straying in the bordering woods. 



