A NEW ENGLAND WOODPILE 



and such large branches as were not too 

 crooked to lie still on the sled. 



The snow-fleas, harbingers and attend- 

 ants of thaws, are making the snow in 

 the woods gray with their restless myr- 

 iads, when the sled makes its last trip 

 across the slushy fields, which are fast 

 turning from white to dun under the 

 March winds and showers and sunshine. 



The completed woodpile basks in the 

 growing warmth, as responsive to the 

 touch of spring as if every trunk yet up- 

 held its branches in the forest. The buds 

 swell on every chance-spared twig, and 

 sap starts from the severed ducts. From 

 the pine drip slowly lengthening stalac- 

 tites of amber, from the hickory thick 

 beads of honeydew, and from the maples 

 a flow of sweet that calls the bees from 

 their hives across the melting drifts. 

 Their busy hum makes an island of sum- 

 mer sound in the midst of the silent ebb- 

 ing tide of winter. 



As the days grow warmer, the wood- 

 pile invites idlers as well as busy bees 

 and wood-cutters. The big logs are com- 

 fortable seats to lounge on while whit- 

 tling a pine chip, and breathing the min- 

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