48 



WINTER. 



Even then, birds and mice gave rise to strange 

 and painful thoughts, for why, indeed, should 

 they fear the child that longed to be their play- 

 mate ? That fancy has not fled unto this day. 

 I love them now as then, and, no longer wonder- 

 ing why they fear man, regret the fact almost as 

 keenly as in days gone by. 



And later, when a sturdy lad but lazy what 

 a favorite hiding-place when there were distaste- 

 ful tasks to be shirked ! The rattle of a loose 

 shingle to-day became the familiar calling of 

 my name when errands were to be run, when 

 the hated churn was ready, wood to be cut or 

 burdens to be carried. But, like all else that 

 this world offers, the hay-mow was not perfec- 

 tion. I paid dearly for my thoughtlessness more 

 than once. There was much evidence of a busy 

 day about the house, some thirty years ago, and 

 at breakfast I imagined that I would be in de- 

 mand ; but to even think of work upon such a 

 perfect day for idling was painful, and, as usual, 

 I soon disappeared. But nature was perverse. 

 Not a familiar nook about the farm responded as 

 it usually did. Even the trees were so wrapped 

 in their own affairs as to turn the cold shoulder. 

 Everything went wrong, and hours before noon 

 I longed to be called. I listened for some famil- 

 iar voice or the regulation toot-toot of the dinner- 

 horn. The old roosters about the barn crowed 



