DECEMBER. 305 



pected some visitor from Canada, some hardy sparrow 

 from the Arctic Circle, to flit across my path, but I saw 

 not even a stray feather floating in the wind. However 

 beautiful a country may be, and the outlook here is grand, 

 I must confess to a feeling of disappointment if there be no 

 birds. However artistic in design, or complete in all its 

 appointments, it may be, a deserted dwelling has for me 

 but little attraction. Its beauty is in proportion to the 

 evidence of the happiness of its occupants, and Helmet 

 Hill in winter sadly needs what it lacked when I was 

 there — ^birds, birds, birds ! 



From the hill's rounded and half-wooded top we 

 looked westward awhile toward Mount Wachusett, whose 

 outline was but dimly discerned, and then, glad to escape 

 a cutting wind, turned our faces homeward, and far more 

 quickly than we went up, descended and reached that 

 curious kame again upon which stand several of the 

 Waverley oaks. Here we again halted. The sunset it- 

 self was enough to hold us; but this afternoon the at- 

 mosphere was of unusual clearness, and against the sun- 

 set's ruddy hues the gnarly branches and interwoven 

 twigs of the old oaks stood out in bold relief, presenting 

 the trees under a new, beautiful, and somewhat novel 

 aspect. Leafless trees seen against the gray winter sky 

 are familiar to many, and all acknowledge their beauty ; 

 the same trees sharply limned upon a rich red sunset are a 

 memorable sight. The minutest twigs were as clearly de- 

 fined as the largest branches ; while the great rounded 

 stumps of the oaks' amputated limbs flecked the western 

 sky as bits of the blackest storm-cloud might. I was for- 

 tunate in seeing these noble trees at the close of day 

 wrapped in such a warm and mellow light. Giants of 

 their race, they stood in quiet repose, conscious of their 

 might ; ready alike to battle in their own defense with 

 the fiercest of midwinter storms, or offer shelter, in due 



