26 



WINTER SUNSHINE. 



wood, and the mounds of green boughs, were welcome 

 features, and helped also to keep off the wind that 

 would creep through under the pines. The ground 

 was soft and dry, with a carpet an inch thick of pine- 

 needles, and with a fire, less for warmth than to make 

 the picture complete, we ate our bread and beans with 

 the keenest satisfaction, and with a relish that only the 

 open air can give. 



A fire, of course — an encampment in the woods at 

 this season without a fire would be like leaving Hamlet 

 out of the play. A smoke is your standard, your flag ; 

 it defines and locates your camp at once ; you are an 

 interloper until you have made a fire ; then you take 

 possession ; then the trees and rocks seem to look 

 upon you more kindly, and you look more kindly upon 

 them. As one opens his budget, so he opens his heart 

 by a fire. Already something has gone out from you, 

 and comes back as a faint reminiscence and home feel- 

 ing in the air and place. One looks out upon the crow 

 or the buzzard that sails by as from his own fireside. 

 It is not I that is a wanderer and a stranger now ; it is 

 the crow and the buzzard. The chickadees were silent 

 at first ; but now they approach by little journeys, as if 

 to make our acquaintance. The nuthatches, also, cry 

 " Yank ! yank ! " in no inhospitable tones ; and those 

 purple finches there in the cedars — are they not steal- 

 ing our berries ? 



How one lingers about a fire under such circum- 

 stances, loath to leave it, poking up the sticks, throw- 



