IN WINTER. 



Qt New {Mace to C0af. 



ONE must plow deeply nowadays to unearth 

 novelty. The world has been written up, and 

 that which we now read is but the echo of some 

 well-nigh forgotten author. Many will be quick 

 to question this, and battle for their originality, 

 but a few days of honest search on their part 

 among really old books will bring them to con- 

 fusion. It is with living writers as with the 

 " oldest inhabitants " who declare they never 

 knew such weather they had better not face 

 statistics. Blooming orchards in January are on 

 record, and February roses gladdened our great- 

 grandmothers. 



" Is there nothing more to be said ? " I 

 had been asking of myself as I daily tramped 

 about the farm, or, on rainy days, ruminated in 

 the attic in a forest of discarded furniture. The 

 outlook, for a while, was certainly discouraging, 

 and then suddenly the hay-mow came to mind. 

 As a boy, I loved the hay-mow ; how is it now, 

 in my maturer years ? 



Spurred by the impulse of so bright a thought, 

 I went to the stable, and with old-timed supple- 

 ness clomb the straight ladder. What memories 

 of summer days in the meadows rushed in with 

 the odor of the heaped-up hay ! A fancy, per- 



