AN OPEN WINTER. 3 



ic plant life. It avails nothing that these springs 

 and outflowing brooks teem with fish, frogs, sala- 

 manders, and spiders ; nor does it matter that the 

 sun gives us summer heat and that birds throng 

 the underbrush as in nesting days ; still it is win- 

 ter. This is the crowning fact that colors every 

 thought, and though we can not step but we 

 crush a flower, winter will not be ignored. Nor 

 would I have it so. January has its merits as well 

 as June, and I hail with pleasure that spot where 

 frost has gained a foothold. Here is one such 

 spot ; a circle of dead weeds bordering one of 

 moss, and blackberry canes in rank profusion 

 arising as an oval mound within all. It is an 

 odd-looking spot to-day, and sure to attract atten- 

 tion. It is unlike the average clump of briers, 

 and properly should be, as it is the sorry monu- 

 ment to a giant that for century after century 

 dwelt here in glory. It was my good fortune to 

 know him well, but my misfortune to be too 

 young to assume the roll of historian. Here 

 stood the Pearson Oak. Perhaps my learned 

 botanical friends may take exceptions, but I hold 

 that this tree was nearly, if not quite, one thou- 

 sand years old. How the Indian looms up when 

 we think of such a tree ! Here was a silent wit- 

 ness to the every-day life of an Indian village that 

 in part rested in the mighty shadows that it 

 cast. And later, from one huge limb dangled 



