DECEMBER DAYS 



flurry of flakes, drift across the fields, 

 and, sounding solemnly from the depths 

 of the woods, the hollow hoot of a great 

 owl. Then the first flakes come waver- 

 ing down, then blurring all the landscape 

 into vague unreality they fall faster, with 

 a soft purr on frozen grass and leaves till 

 it becomes unheard on the thickening 

 noiseless mantle of snow. Deeper and 

 deeper the snow infolds the earth, cover- 

 ing all its unsightliness of death and 

 desolation. 



Now white-furred hare and white- 

 feathered bunting are at one with the 

 white-clad world wherein they move, and 

 we, so lately accustomed to the green- 

 ness of summer and the gorgeousness of 

 autumn, wondering at the ease where- 

 with we accept this marvel of transfor- 

 mation, welcome these white December 

 days and in them still find content. 

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