nature's calm 



117 



rough wind rattles against the blinds; 

 there are snow patches in the garden 

 and snow banks under the north fences. 

 The leaves still rustling on the honey- 

 suckle are answered by those that the 

 winter's hail has failed to beat from 

 the oaks and beeches; but when the 

 tender buds come, they will do what 

 force could not do, and the withered 

 leaves will fall away, as Death's fetters 

 drop before the touch of immortality. 



You hear the same sounds as of the 

 past months: the creakings of tree 

 trunks and of boughs, the sparrows 

 fidgeting in their perch under the 

 piazza eaves, and perhaps an owl 

 quavering in the old chestnut. Yet 

 there is a sense of change, a different 

 quality to the air, and more, for two 

 new sounds separate themselves from 

 all the others. The river, freed from 

 ice, is rushing over the milldam, and 

 the hylodes are peeping faintly. 



