A WINTER MOOD 



227 



the gate a barberry bush glows with 

 coral, and upon this gate some quail 

 are perching. Surely here is colour 

 enough. The birds walk away uncon- 

 cernedly, with long strides, like warmly 

 coated little boys who tramp in the 

 snow for amusement. The road cuts 

 through a trap-crest, and the deep blue 

 stone, stained and streaked with rusty 

 brown where it faces the weather, adds 

 one more tint to the palet. In the 

 field on the left are the telltale tracks 

 of wild rabbits — hop, sit! hop, sit! 

 The trail runs through the bushes and 

 under the fence; there they are mak- 

 ing a feast of cast-away turnips. 



The split, empty milkweed pods 

 point upward with their sharp fingers, 

 and the black-purple berries shine on 

 the polished green strands of cat-brier. 

 It seems more like a metal than any- 

 thing organic and living, as it grasps 



