XLIX 



A NEW ENGLAND WOODPILE 



WHEN the charitable mantle of the 

 snow has covered the ugliness of the 

 earth, as one looks towards the wood- 

 lands he may see a distant dark speck 

 emerge from the blue shadow of the 

 woods and crawl slowly houseward. If 

 born to the customs of this wintry land, 

 he may guess at once what it is ; if not, 

 speculation, after a little, gives way to cer- 

 tainty, when the indistinct atom grows 

 into a team of quick-stepping horses or 

 deliberate oxen hauling a sled-load of 

 wood to the farmhouse. 



It is more than that. It is a part of 

 the woods themselves, with much of 

 their wildness clinging to it, and with 

 records, slight and fragmentary, yet legi- 

 ble, of the lives of trees and birds and 

 beasts and men coming to our door. 



Before the sounds of the creaking sled 

 and the answering creak of the snow are 

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