AN OPEN WINTER. g/ 



feature in the whole range of half a dozen miles. 

 A little here and there to wonder over, disappoint- 

 ment at nearly every turn ; more, many more som- 

 ber than merry thoughts ; and not one success- 

 ful effort at thinking any thought to a logical con- 

 clusion. To what is this due ? Without doubt, 

 to the " open " season. Nor is it strange. In no 

 respect is nature soul-satisfying when unseason- 

 able. A cool June morning is not a contradic- 

 tion, and is delightful ; but sultry January days 

 are an utter abomination. Midwinter kicks over 

 the traces when daffodils sport in January sun- 

 shine, as they are doing this morning about the 

 crooked maple wherein I sit and write. The truth 

 is, the present conditions offer no pronounced 

 feature of the open country ; nothing hot or cold, 

 but all in that lukewarm condition tending to 

 nausea. Nor is this feeling of dissatisfaction 

 that takes so strong a hold upon mankind con- 

 fined thereto. It is seen in half the creatures 

 that one meets. A meadow-mouse is no slug- 

 gard at other times, and a lazy deer-mouse is a 

 contradiction ; but with what measured steps 

 and slow a mouse comes hobbling over the dead 

 leaves about the maple I am perched in ! The 

 creature looks at the sky, then at the ground, 

 and finally at a sorry shrub with seedless pods. 

 Not a bit of animation in its motions, but the 

 same dejected feelings I recognize in myself 

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