@ Cure for Winter 
is left unfinished and time is thrown so much more 
into the future. There is no past on the farm; it is 
all to come; no sure defeat, but always promise; 
no settled winter, but always the signs of coming 
spring. 
To-day is the first of January, snowy, brilliant, 
but dripping with the sound of spring wherever the 
sun lies warm, and calling with the heart of spring 
yonder where the crows are flocking. There is 
spring in the talk of the chickadees outside my win- 
dow, and in the cheerful bluster of a red squirrel in 
the hickory. No bluebird has returned yet: spring is 
not here, not quite, I hope, but it is coming, and so 
near that I shall drop my pen and go out to the barn 
to put together some new beehives, for I must have 
them ready for the spring. Winter! The winter is 
almost gone. Why, it is barely a month since I 
brought my bees into the cellar, and here I am 
taking them out again — in prospect. 
The hives have just come from the factory “in the 
flat”: sawed, planed, dovetailed, and matched, —a 
delightful set of big blocks, — ready to be nailed to- 
gether. You feel a bit mean, keeping them from the 
children. But the oldest of the boys is only six, and 
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