THE WOODS IN WINTER. 2 $ 



liquid-ambar and you are greeted with exquisite 

 grace. I can point out in the old woods here at 

 home the counterparts of many a man I know. 

 The lonely wild apple on a gravelly knoll is as 

 crabbed as my crusty neighbor who begrudges 

 me a few flint arrowheads. I think I should be 

 soured by wandering half a day in a forest of 

 wild-apple trees. There is no such feeling when 

 with the oaks, beeches, chestnuts, and silver 

 birch. They recall no unfortunates among one's 

 acquaintance. Every tree of them is content 

 with the world as it finds it, and so too am I 

 when surrounded by them. 



The woods were quiet when I entered. Not 

 a twig trembled, and the dead leaves were too 

 limp to crackle beneath my feet. Dainty frost 

 crystals were plentifully strown over the dwarfed 

 bushes by the roadside, and a film of glittering 

 ice with jagged sides reached out from the banks 

 of a little brook near by. Nowhere did the ice 

 reach wholly across the stream, and so was the 

 more beautiful by reason of the inky waters that 

 flowed sluggishly beneath it. 



Where, about the roots of a massive beech, 

 the brook had become a little pool, I stood for 

 many minutes, alternately watching the waters 

 that here seemed roused to a semblance of ac- 

 tivity, and then listening to the welcome cawing 

 of the over-flying crows. Brooks, birds, and 

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