96 The Witchery of Winter 



ishes as the weeds that we are ever scotching 

 and never kill. 



The summer's heat and the summer's 

 shade are gone, but the solid earth remains. 

 The footprints of a ramble of long ago are 

 still to be traced along this woodland path, 

 and I stand in these again. The trees, the 

 shrubbery, the hill-side and meadow, the 

 winding creek and resistless river, are all still 

 here, changed, yet the same. Nor do I 

 alone represent the life of this charmed spot. 

 There are birds about me, birds that whis- 

 per glad tidings as they chirp near by ; birds 

 that pipe a merry strain whenever the bare 

 twigs rattle ; birds that scream their delight 

 from cloud-land. In all that I see and hear 

 there is no trace of the fault-finder's peevish 

 moan. All is hearty ; all is cheerful. The 

 world is accepted as it is, and it is no vain 

 conceit to speak with confidence of the 

 witchery of winter. 



