144 PEARLS AND PEBBLES. 



Winter's lovely herald greets us 

 Ere the ice-crowned tyrant meets us. 



' ' This dreary Indian summer day 



Attunes the soul to tender sadness ; 

 We love — but joy not in the ray ; 



It is not summer's fervid gladness, 

 But a melancholy glory 



Hovering softly round decay, — 

 Like swan that sings her own sad story 

 Ere she floats in death away.'' 



— Susanna Moodie. 



WINTER. 



' ' Sharp is the frost, the Northern Light 

 Flickers and shoots its streamers bright ; 

 Snowdrifts cumber the untracked road, 

 Bends the pine with its heavy load." 



— Francis Rye. 



There is silence in the forest. The birds that came 

 to make their summer sojourn here have long since for- 

 saken us. All are gone — not a song, not a twitter or 

 chirp, meets the ear. Even the lively little ground 

 squirrel has gathered in his stores and retired to his 

 warm, cosy house under the root of oak or beech, where,, 

 within reach of his well-filled granary, he is snugly 

 cuddled with his furry family, a happy denizen of his 

 native woods. The bolder, hardier red squirrel is safely 

 housed in the fork of a hollow tree, sheltered from blus- 

 tering wintry winds and drifting snow. The racoon, the 

 porcupine, the little field-mouse, are all hidden in nest or 



