THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW 71 



The last of the asters have long since gone; so 

 have the witch-hazels. All is quiet about the hives. 

 The bees have formed into their warm winter clusters 

 upon the combs ; and except " when come the calm, 

 mild days," they will fly no more until March or 

 April. I will half close their entrances — and so help 

 them to put on their storm-doors. \ 



The whole out of doors around me is like a great 

 beehive, stored and sealed for the winter, its swarm- 

 ing life close-clustered, and safe and warm against 

 the coming cold. 



I stand along the edge of the hillside here and 

 look down the length of its frozen slope. There is 

 no sign of life. The brown leaves have drifted into 

 the mouths of the woodchuck holes, as if every 

 burrow were forsaken ; sand and sticks have washed 

 in, too, littering and choking the doorways. A 

 stranger would find it hard to believe that all of my 

 forty-six woodchucks are gently snoring at the bot- 

 toms of these old uninteresting holes. Yet here they 

 are, and quite out of danger, sleeping the sleep of 

 the furry, the fat, and the forgetful. 



The woodchuck's manner of providing for winter 

 is very curious. Winter spreads far and fast, and 

 Woodchuck, in order to keep ahead, out of danger, 

 would need wings. But wings, weren't given him. 

 Must he perish then? Winter spreads far, but it 

 does not go deep — down only about four feet; and 

 Woodchuck, if he cannot escape overland, can, 



