66 THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



the flooded meadow, are fresh calamus roots, and 

 iris and arum — food in abundance, no matter how 

 long the winter lasts. 



No, the winter has not yet come; but it is coming, 

 for the muskrats are building. Let it come. Let the 

 cold crawl stiff and gray across the meadow. Let 

 the whirling snow curl like smoke about the pointed 

 top of the little tepee down by the meadow ditch. 

 Let the north wind do its worst. For what care the 

 dwellers in that thick-walled lodge beneath the snow? 

 Down under the water their doors are open; their 

 roadways up the ditches as free as in the summer ; 

 and the stems of the sedges just as juicy and pink 

 and tender. 



The muskrats are building. The buds are leav- 

 ing. Winter is coming. I must get out my own 

 storm-windows and double-doors ; for even now a 

 fire is blazing cheerily on my wide, warm hearth. 



