Hallowe’en to Candlemas 
Aconite, and an early bloom of Wallflower — Beeflower as it 
is sometimes called — and a few buds among the Hepatica 
leaves. The poor Wallflower has, however, suffered from 
the frost, and the rose branches looked pinched and for- 
lorn. It looks so odd to see the footmarks of the pheasants 
in the snow and the tracks of the hares and rabbits. There 
is something very desolate about the garden ; it looks so 
empty and deserted, all covered as with a white sheet, the 
flowers’ winding-sheet, and often a pair of little black and 
white waterhens, like mourning “Sisters,” walking delicately, 
like Agag, to and fro. It seems as though it would be a 
long long time ere we see any flowers. 
How tame the robins are in winter-time! There is a 
common saying, “ The robins are too muckle aboot the 
doors for gude weather.” Holland, who is, I think, the first 
Scottish poet who mentions the redbreast, and who lived 
about 1450, calls him the Henisman, meaning “page” or 
“henchman.” He certainly is a very faithful little retainer. 
I saw a lovely cock pheasant this morning high up among 
the snow-covered branches of the old copper-beech; he did 
look so odd and out of place, and flew away heavily when 
I looked at him. I am told they often roost high up in 
trees, but I never saw one do it before. Boy loves the 
snow. A fat little bundle in warm coat and red comforter, 
Master Redcap bustles out into the snow in his high snow- 
boots, and snowballs audaciously every one who passes 
near him. He went with me to the village to-day, across 
the little high foot-bridge which spans the river on stiltlike 
legs — “fowl’s legs” as the Russians would say. Down below 
us the swinging water-gate was decorated with long icicles, 
and they hung from the cliff by the river and from the old 
mossy roof of the thatched cottage where I had an errand. 
They looked very pretty, and Boy wanted to break them 
off and carry them home. There was a little fringe of ice 
along the river bank, and we have been hearing fine tales 
of our little river, how in really hard winters it freezes over, 
and then cracking breaks up and rushes by with young ice- 
floes tossing on its brown bosom, overrunning the haugh, 
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