@ Cure for Winter 
For, lo, the winter is past, 
The rain is over and gone — 
yet the snow lies white upon the fields, my little 
river huddles under the ice, and a new calendar 
hangs against the faded wall. But the storm is spent, 
the sun is out, there is a cheery drip, drip, drip from 
the eaves, eggs are sixty cents a dozen, and I am 
writing to the golden cackle of my hens. New Year's 
Day, and winter gone! No, not quite gone, with eggs 
at such a price; still, it must be plain to every one 
that I can have but little of winter left: eggs are 
liable to come down any day. 
It would be different, of course, were I buying 
eggs at sixty cents, —all the difference between a 
winter-sick and a winter-well condition. Selling eggs 
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