48 THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



was bundled up and buttoned to the tip of its drip- 

 ping nose; the bees by the currant bushes were 

 doubled-hived, the strawberries covered with hay, 

 the wood all split and piled, the cellar windows 

 packed, and the storm-doors put on. 



The very cows had put on an extra coat, and 

 turned their collars up about their ears ; the turkeys 

 had changed their roost from the ridge-pole of the 

 corn-crib to the pearmain tree on the sunny side of 

 the wagon-house; the squirrels had finished their 

 bulky nests in the oaks ; the muskrats of the lower 

 pasture had completed their lodges ; the whole farm 

 — house, barn, fields, and wood-lot — had shuffled 

 into ito greatcoat and muffler and settled comfort- 

 ably down for the winter. 



The old farmhouse was an invitation to winter. 

 It looked its joy at the prospect of the coming cold. 

 Low, weather-worn, mossy-shingled, secluded in its 

 wayward garden of box and bleeding-hearts, shel- 

 tered by its tall pines, grape-vined, hop-vined, clung 

 to by creeper and honeysuckle, it stood where the 

 roads divided, halfway between everywhere, un- 

 painted, unpretentious, as much a part of the land- 

 scape as the muskrat-lodge, and, like the lodge, 

 roomy, warm, -and hospitable. 



Round at the back, under the wide, open shed, a 

 door led into the kitchen ; another led into the living- 

 room ; another, into the store-room ; and two big, 

 slanting double-doors, scoured and slippery with 



