Read Ebook: Pastoral Days; or Memories of a New England Year by Gibson W Hamilton William Hamilton

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Silently, like thoughts that come and go, the snow-flakes fall, each one a gem. The whitened air conceals all earthly trace, and leaves to memory the space to fill. I look upon a blank, whereon my fancy paints, as could no hand of mine, the pictures and the poems of a boyhood life; and even as the undertone of a painting, be it warm or cool, shall modify or change the color laid upon it, so this cold and frosty background through the window transfigures all my thoughts, and forms them into winter memories legion like the snow. Oh that I could translate for other eyes the winter idyl painted there! I see a living past whose counterpart I well could wish might be a common fortune. I see in all its joyous phases the gladsome winter in New England, the snow-clad hills with bare and shivering trees, the homestead dear, the old gray barn hemmed in with peaked drifts. I see the skating-pond, and hear the ringing, intermingled shouts of the noisy, shuffling game, the black ice written full with testimony of the winter's brisk hilarity. Down the hard-packed road with glancing sled I speed, past frightened team and startled way-side groups; o'er "thank you, marms," I fly in clear mid-air, and crouching low, with sidelong spurts of snowy spray, I sweep the sliding curve. Now past the village church and cosy parsonage. Now scudding close beneath the hemlocks, hanging low with their piled and tufted weight of snow. The way-side bits like dizzy streaks whiz by, the old rail fence becomes a quivering tint of gray. The road-side weeds bow after me, and in the swirling eddy chasing close upon my feet, sway to and fro. Soon, like an arrow from the bow, I shoot across the "Town Brook" bridge, and, jumping out beyond, skip the sinking ground, and with an anxious eye and careful poise I "trim the ship," and, hoping, leave the rest to fate.

Perhaps I land on both runners, perhaps I don't; that depends. I've tried both ways I know, and if I remember rightly, I always found it royal jolly fun; for what cared I at a bruise, or a pint of snow down my back, when I got it there myself?

At the foot of that long hill the "Town Brook" gurgles on its winding way, and passing beneath the weather-beaten bridge, it makes a sudden turn, and spreads into a glassy pond behind the bulwarks of the saw-mill dam. In summer, were we as near as this, we would hear the intermittent ring of the whizzing saw, the clanking cogs, and the tuneful sounds of the falling bark-bound slabs; but now, like its bare willows that were wont to wave their leafy boughs with caressing touch upon the mossy roof, the old mill shows no sign of life. Its pulse is frozen, and the silent wheel is resting from its labors beneath a coverlet of snow. Who is there who has not in some recess of the memory a dear old haunt like this, some such sleeping pond radiant with reflections of the scenes of early life? Thither in those winter days we came, our numbers swelled from right and left with eager volunteers for the game, till at last, almost a hundred strong, we rally on the smooth black ice.

How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports on the old mill-pond! I see the two opposing forces on the field of ice, the wooden ball placed ready for the fray. The starter lifts his stick. I hear a whizzing sweep. Then comes that liquid, twittering ditty of the hard-wood ball skimming over the ice, that quick succession of bird-like notes, first distinct and clear, now fainter and more blended, now fainter still, until at last it melts into a whispered, quivering whistle, and dies away amidst the scraping sound of the close-pursuing skates. With a sharp crack I see the ball returned singing over the polished surface, and met half-way by the advance-guard of the leading side. The holder of the ball with rapid onward flight hugs close upon his charge, keeping it at the end of his stick. Past one and another of his adversaries he flies on winged skates, followed by a score of his companions, until, seeing his golden opportunity, with one tremendous effort he gives a powerful blow. To be sure, one of his own men interposes the back of his head and takes half the force of his stroke; but what does that matter, it was all in fun? besides, he had no business to be in the way. The ball thus retarded in such a trivial manner instantly meets a barricade of the excited opponents, who have hurried thither to save their game; but before any one can gain the time to strike the ball, the starters rush pell-mell upon them. Now comes the tug of war. Strange fun! What a spectacle! The would-be striker, with stick uplifted, jammed in the centre of a boisterous throng; the hill-sides echo with ringing shouts, and an anxious circle with ready sticks forms about the swaying, gesticulating mob. Meanwhile the ball is beating round beneath their feet, their skates are clashing steel on steel. I hear the shuffling kicks, the battling strokes of clubs, the husky mutterings of passion half suppressed; I hear the panting breath and the impetuous whisperings between the teeth, as they push and wrestle and jam. A lucky hit now sends the ball a few feet from the fray. A ready hand improves the chance; but as he lifts his stick a youngster's nose gets in the way and spoils his stroke; he slips, and falls upon the ball; another and another plunge headlong over him. The crowd surround the prostrate pile, and punch among them for the ball. When found, the same riotous scene ensues; another falls, and all are trampled under foot by the enthusiastic crowd. Ye gods! will any one come out alive? I hear the old familiar sounds vibrating on the air: whack! whack! "Ouch!" "Get out of the way, then!" "Now I've got it!" "Shinney on yer own side!" and now a heavy thud! which means a sudden damper on some one's wild enthusiasm. And so it goes until the game is won. The mob disperses, and the riotous spectacle gives place to uproarious jollity.

There are other more tranquil reflections from that old mill-pond. Do you not remember the little pair of dainty skates whose straps you clasped on daintier feet; the quiet, gliding strolls through the secluded nooks; the small, refractory buckle which you so often stooped to conquer; and the sidelong grimaces of less fortunate swains--sneers that brought the color tingling to your cheeks with mingled pride and anger? Ah! things so near the heart as these can never freeze.

Yonder, just below that clustered group of pines, where the water-weeds and lily-pads are frozen in the ice, we chopped our fishing holes, and with baited lines and tip-ups set, we waited, wondering what our luck would be. With eager eyes we watched the line play out, or saw the tip-up give the warning sign. And as with anxious pull we neared the end of the tightening cord, who shall describe that tingling sense of joy at the first glimpse of the gaping pickerel?

Near by I see the yellow-fringed witch-hazel bending in graceful spray over the flaky, bordering ice, that mystic shrub whose feathery winter blooms we gathered as a token for the little one with dainty skates.

Still farther up the pond the marbled button-wood-tree, with spreading limbs and knotty brooms of branchlets, rises clear against the sky, its little pendulums swinging away the winter moments. At its very roots the dam spreads into a tufted swamp, thick-set with alders. How often have I picked my way through that wheezing, soggy marsh in quest of the rare Cecropia cocoons; treading among glazed air-chambers, whose roof of ice, like a pane of brittle glass, falls in at my approach--a crystal fairy grotto, set with diamonds and frost ferns, annihilated at a step.

And then the lovely woods. How few there are who ever seek their winter solitude: and of these how fewer still are they who find anything but drear and cold monotony!

We read the literature of our time, and find it rich in story of the home aspects of winter; of Christmas joys and festivals, of holiday festivities, and all the various phases of cosy domestic life; but not often are we tempted from the glowing hearth into the wilds of the bare and leafless forest. We read of the "drear and lonely waste, the cheerless desolation of the howling wilderness," and we look out upon the naked, shivering trees and draw our cushioned rockers closer to the grateful fire.

Not I; bitter were the winds and high the piled-up drifts that shut me in from out-of-doors in those glorious days; and whether on my animated trapping tours, or hunting on the crusted snow, with powder-horn and game-bag swinging at my side, or perhaps pressing through the tangled thickets in my impetuous search for those pendulous cocoons, now stopping to tear away the loosening bark on moss-grown stump, now looking beneath some prostrate board for the little "woolly bears" curled up in their dormant sleep: no matter what my purpose, always I was sure to find the winter full of interest and beauty. How distinctly I recall the thrilling spectacle of that glad morning when, awakening early, and jumping from the little cot so snug and warm, I tripped across the chilly floor and scratched a peep-hole on the frosted window-pane; looked out upon a world so changed, so strangely beautiful, that at first it seemed like a lingering vision in half-awakened eyes--still looking into dream-land. All the world is dressed in purest white, as soft and light as down from seraphs' wings. The orchard trees, the elms, and all the leafless shrubs, as if by magic spell, transformed to shadowy plumes of spotless purity, and the interlacing boughs o'erhead vanishing in a canopy of glistening, feathery spray. I look upon a realm celestial in its beauty, unprofaned by earthly sign or sound. A strange, supernal stillness fills the air; and save where some unseen spirit-wing tips the slender twig and lets fall the scintillating shower, no slightest movement mars the enchanted vision. Above, in the far-off blue, I see the circling flock of doves, their snowy wings glittering in their upward flight--apt emblems in a scene so like a glimpse of spirit-land. A single vision such as this should wed the heart to winter's loveliness, a loveliness inspiring and immaculate, for never in the cycle of the year does nature wear a face so void of earthly impress, so spirit-like, so near the heavenly ideal.

One of the most striking features of the winter ramble in the woods is their impressive stillness. But stop awhile and listen. That very silence will give emphasis to every sound that soon shall vibrate on the clear atmosphere, for "little pitchers have big ears," and wide-open eyes too. They will first be sure that the stick you hold is only a cane, and not the small boy's gun which they have so learned to dread. Hark! even from the hollow maple at your side there comes a scraping sound, and in an instant more two black and shining eyes are peering down at us from the bulging hole above. Tut! don't strike the little fellow. Had you only waited a moment longer, we would have seen him emerge from his concealment, and with frisky, bushy tail laid flat upon the bark, he would have hung head downward on the trunk, and watched our every movement; but now you've startled him, he thinks you mean mischief, and you'll see his sparkling eyes no more at that knot-hole. Listen! Now we hear a rustling in the sere and snow-tipped weeds somewhere near by, and presently a little feathery form flits past, and settles yonder on the swaying rush. With feathers ruffled into a little fuzzy ball, he bustles around among the downy seeds, now prying in their midst, now hanging underneath, head up, head down, no matter which, it's all the same to him. Now he stops short in his busy search, turns his little head jauntily from side to side, lifts his tufted crest, and sets free his pent-up glee--"See! see! see me sing! Chickadee-dee-dee!" Who has not heard that wee small voice ringing in the frosty air? and who, having heard it, has not longed to catch and cuddle that little feathery puff, the winter's own darling, whose little warm heart and sprightly song temper the chill and enliven the cheerless days?

The bending rush but lightly feels the dainty form, and, if at all, it must delight to bear so sweet a burden. How dearly have I learned to love this little fellow, perhaps my special favorite among the birds; for while the others one by one desert us with the dying year for scenes more bright and sunny, the chickadee is content to share our lot; he is constant, always with us, ever full of sprightliness and cheer. No winter is known in his warm heart, no piercing blast can freeze the fountain of his song.

Then there are the little snow-birds, too. When the sad autumn days are upon us, when the dying leaves with ominous flush yield up their hold on life, and are borne to earth on wailing winds, and all nature seems filled with mocking phantoms of the summer's life and loveliness; when we listen for the robin's song and hear it not, or the thrush's bell-like trill, and listen in vain; when we look into the southern sky and see the winged flocks departing behind the faded hills--it is at such a time, while the very air seems weighed with melancholy, that the snow-birds come with their welcome, twittering voices. All winter long these sprightly little fellows swarm the thickets and sheltering evergreens, frolicking in the new-fallen snow like sparrows in a summer pool. Sometimes they unite in flocks with the chickadees and invade the orchard, and even the kitchen door-yard, with their ceaseless chatter. If you open the window and scatter a few crumbs upon the porch, they are soon hopping among the grateful morsels with twittering thankfulness. And on a very cold day, should you leave the kitchen window standing open, they will perch upon the sill and preen their ruffled feathers. Always trusting and confiding when appreciated, but often coy and distant for want of just such kindness.

Although loving the cold, and choosing the winter season to be with us, the snow-birds cannot hold their own against the little hardy chickadee. Indeed, I sometimes think that this little frost-proof puff is happier and more sprightly in proportion as the cold increases, and that even the sight of a frozen thermometer would be, perhaps, an especial inspiration for his song. Not so the little snow-birds. When those raw and bitter winds sweep like a blight over the face of nature, their little song is frozen, and their familiar forms are seen no more. You hunt amid the evergreens and hedge-rows, but they are not there. But when the shingle-vane on the old barn-gable veers and points toward the south or west, should you chance to be in the neighborhood of the barrack mow, you would hear the muffled twittering of the little thawing voices underneath the conical roof. Here they have assembled among the wheat-sheaves still unthreshed, finding a warm and cosy shelter--"a pavilion till the storm is overpast."

The winter woods are full of life and beauty, if we will only look for them. We do as much for the summer woods, why not for the winter? Were we to seclude ourselves in-doors in June, and shut our eyes to all its loveliness, it would be only what so many do from November till the budding spring. In one respect, at least, the woods are even more beautiful in winter than in summer; for in their height of leafy splendor--sometimes to me almost oppressive in its universal greenness--the true and living tree is hidden from sight, its exquisite anatomy is concealed, and, to a certain degree, all the different trees melt into a mass of "nothing but leaves."

No one ever sees the full charm of the forest who turns his back upon it in the winter, for its clear-cut tree-forms are an unceasing delight and wonder. Look at the exquisite lines of that drooping birch, the intricate interlacing tracery of the minute branching twigs! Could anything be more graceful or more chaste? could any covering of leaves enhance its beauty? And so the apple-tree by the old stone wall--how different its various angles! how individual in its character! how beautiful its silhouette against the sky! Thus every separate tree affords a perfect study, of infinite design. See that mottled beech trunk yonder. What! never noticed it before? That was because its drooping leaf-clad branches concealed its beauty; but now not only does it emerge from its wonted obscurity, but the whiteness of the snowy ground beyond gives added value to every subtle tint upon its dappled surface. Step nearer. With what variety of exquisite tender grays has nature painted the clean smooth bark! See those marbled variegations, each spot with a distinct tint of its own, and each tint composed of a multitude of microscopic points of color. Here we see a fimbriated blotch of dark olive moss, spreading its intertwining rootlets in all directions, and further up a spongy tuft of rich brown lichen tipped with snow. Who could pass by unnoticed such a refined and exquisite bit of painting as this? And yet they abound on every side. See the shingly shagbark, with its mottlings of pale green lichen and orange spots, its jagged outline so perfectly relieved against the snow, and, beyond, that group of rock-maples, with its bold contrasts of deep green moss, and striped tints of most varied shades, from lightest drab to deepest brown. And there is the yellow birch with its tight-wound bark, fringed with ravellings of buff-colored satin. Here we come upon a clump of chestnuts, their cool trunks set off in bold relief against a background of dark hemlocks, whose outer branches, clothed in snow, like tufted mittens, hang low upon the ground.

Passing from the wood, we now pick our way through a neglected by-path shut in on either side with birches, whose brown and slender branches spring from a trunk so white as to be almost lost in the background tint of snow. At every step we dislodge the glistening wreaths of snowy flakes from the bluish raspberry canes. The little withered nests on the tips of the wild-carrot stems hurl their fleecy burden to the ground; and each in turn the phantom shapes give place to homely yarrows, golden-rods, or thistles. Further on we see a wild-rose branch with scarlet berries, and further st--What's that? A fleet-footed little creature darts out almost from under our very feet, and bounds away into the dark recess. That little cotton tail! what a tempting target it always was for me! Lucky for you, my dear little fellow, that I am not a boy again, or I'd set a snare for you in about ten minutes. This always was a favorite haunt for hares, and if we had only kept our eyes open we might have known it, for, see! all around us the snow is dotted with hollows from their four little jumping foot-pads.

Now we enter the old swamp lot, thick-set with bristling bulrushes and bare and spindling brooms of iron-weed. Here is the little turtle pond, from whose animated mud we fished the bugs and polly-wogs for our aquarium. Now it is shrunken and cold with crackling ice. Around its borders a thicket of black alder grows, its close-clinging scarlet berries, half hid in summer by the overhanging foliage, now seen in all their brilliancy and profusion, the brightest touches of color in nature's winter landscape.

Soon we are walking over the soft and silent carpet in the pine grove's sombre shelter, stopping for one brief moment to listen to the sighing wind overhead, and to inhale one long and lasting whiff of the delicious invigorating aroma of the trees.

Once more out in the open, our attention is arrested by a little stain of blood upon the snow. Leading to the spot we see a row of tiny imprints of some little field-mouse, and the white surface in close vicinity is ruffled and disturbed. A cruel tragedy has been committed here, and its evidence is plain, for there is but one line of wee footprints from the little hole beneath the stump near by--no return. Poor little fellow! I wish I had beneath my foot the sharp-eyed owl that surprised you in your little antics on the snow.

A deserted nest now hangs across our pathway, and as I look upon the cold heap within its hollow, I wonder where are the little birds that nestled beneath the mother's wings in the cosy warmth of that cradled home only a few short months ago. And now I am reminded that nearly all this land through which we have been strolling belongs to Nathan Beers; for there's his house right across the road, only a few rods in front of us. I cannot help but laugh as I look over into that old door-yard at the incident it recalls.

"Hello, Nathan!" I ask, "what's up?"

He turns quickly, and I observe that his usually good-natured Yankee face now wears a troubled expression.

"My dander's up--that's what's up," he replies, a little sullenly.

"They tell me you've been after a fox, Nathan; did you catch him?"

I am soon by his side, anxious to hear all about it. "What's the fox done?" I ask, eagerly.

"Why, what's he been doing, Nathan?"

And so he went on for half an hour, telling me all the various stratagems by which Reynard had outwitted him.

"Why," I ask, "what was the matter down there, Nathan?"

Nathan's house was a typical New England home, with slanting roof on one side, and embowered in maples, and it had the most picturesque barn in the neighborhood. Oh you good people far off in the country everywhere, how I envy you these dear old barns! How much you ought to appreciate their homely rustic beauty! But you never will, until, like me, you are forced to live away from them, and to see them only through the golden haze of memory. Then you will learn how great a part they took in influencing your daily life and happiness.

Was ever perfume sweeter than that all-pervading fragrance of the sweet-scented hay? and was ever an interior so truly picturesque, so full of quiet harmony?

The lofty hay-mows piled nearly to the roof, the jagged axe-notched beams overhung with cobwebs flecked with dust of hay-seed, with perhaps a downy feather here and there. The rude, quaint hen boxes, with the lone nest-egg in little nooks and corners. How vividly, how lovingly, I recall each one!

In those snow-bound days, when the white flakes shut in the earth down deep beneath, and the drifts obstructed the highways, and we heard the noisy teamsters, with snap of whip and exciting shouts, urge their straining oxen through the solid barricade; when all the fences and stone walls were almost lost to sight in the universal avalanche; and, best of all, when the little district school-house upon the hill stood in an impassable sea of snow--then we assembled in the old barn to play, sought out every hidden corner in our game of hide-and-seek, or jumped and frolicked in the hay, now stopping quietly to listen to the tiny squeak of some rustling mouse near by, or, it may be, creeping cautiously to the little hole up near the eaves in search of the big-eyed owl we once caught napping there. In a hundred ways we passed the fleeting hours. The general features of New England barns are all alike; and the barn of memory is a garner full of treasure sweet as new-mown hay. You remember the great broad double doors, which made their sweeping circuit in the snow; the ruddy pumpkins, piled up in the corner near the bins, and the wistful whinny of the old farm-horse, as with pricked-up ears and eager pull of chain he urged your prompt attention to your chores; the cows, too, in the manger stalls--how pleasant their low breathing--how sweet their perfumed breath! Outside the corn-crib stands, its golden stores gleaming through the open laths, and the oxen, reaching with lapping upturned tongues, yearn for the tempting feast, "so near and yet so far." The party-colored hens group themselves in rich contrast against the sunny boards of the weather-beaten shed, and the ducks and geese, with rattling croak and husky hiss, and quick vibrating tails , waddle across the slushy snow, and sail out upon the barn-yard pond.

Here is the pile of husks from whose bleached and rustling sheaths you picked the little ravellings of brown for your corn-silk cigarettes. Did ever "pure Havana" taste as sweet?

And when, with ruddy faces and stamping feet, we all rush in and crowd the old fireplace, how welcome the glowing warmth, how keen the relish for the appetizing spread upon the snow-white table-cloth: the smoking dish of beans, with crisp accompaniment of luscious pork; the hot brown bread so sweet; and, last of all, the far-famed Indian pudding, fresh and steaming from the old brick oven!

How distinctly I recall those long and happy evenings around that radiant hearth, the games, the stories read from welcome magazines! Little we cared for the howling storm without. I hear the tick of the ancient clock in the corner shadowed by the old arm-chair; I see the glimmer on the whitewashed wall, the festooned strings of apples, sliced and hung above the fire to dry; I hear the patient, expectant stroke of hammer on the upturned log, and now the crackling burst of the rough-shelled butternut, yielding up its long and filmy kernel; I hear the apples sizzling on the hearth, the puffy snap of pop-corn jumping in its fiery cage, the kettle singing on the pendent hook--a thousand things; and what a precious living picture of sweet home-life they all bring back to me!

But look! there is another hidden picture in the book of life--a shadowed page, which we had well-nigh forgotten. See that crouching figure in the dark, deserted street--that spurned and wretched outcast, without a home, without a friend! Perhaps if that broken heart has not already ceased to yearn, if the last spark has not yet been smothered by the driving, covering snow, we might still hear the faint and stifled sobs:

"Once I was loved for my innocent grace, Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, mother, sisters, all, God, and myself, I have lost in my fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh, For of all that is on or about me, I know, There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain, Fainting, freezing, dying alone!"

Life's book is full of shadowed pages such as this; and it were well if in the midst of our contented homes, around our cheerful fires, we stopped to think and give a silent, heart-felt prayer for those who, by some strange, inexplicable fatality, seem doomed to walk with cruel burdens and with bleeding feet the path of life: no helping hand, no friend, no hope, no God.

What a terrible night! Hark how the wind moans, like a long wail from some despairing soul shut out in the awful storm! The air is filled with dense clouds of flying snow and sleet chased along by the gale. The trees bend and writhe, and, as if in fear, scratch their boughs upon the roof; the driving flakes beat with an angry, hissing sound upon the window-panes, and for a moment there is a muffled, ominous silence. Now comes a wild and furious gust, and a great white whirlwind sweeps with serpentine contortions past the window and disappears in the thick darkness of the night. Our very walls sway and tremble to their foundation. The clap-boards snap, and some loosened blind is torn from its hinges and hurled as a feather before the raging wind. We hear a crash of breaking glass, the shaking of the old barn doors, and now a frightened neigh, half smothered in the storm.

Who would venture out in such a night as this? We shudder at the thought, and yet there is one whose holy sense of duty will see no barrier even in this fierce tempest. Even now he is urging his faithful horse onward through the lonely road, cold and benumbed, but thinking only of the suffering he hopes to relieve.

And so the winter goes. It has its joys and its sorrows, its strong contrasts of light and shadow. The bitter winds will freeze and rule the earth, but the sun will shine again, and the very gloom transform to glittering splendor. Soon we greet the lengthening days. The farmer heeds the warning sign. The woods resound with the stroke of the axe and crashing of falling trees; and the prostrate trunks are rolled upon the sledge and hauled away "to mill;" the fields are strewn with compost, and meadows sown with clover on the snow, fences are fixed, and hot-bed started on the sunny slope; the cackling hens have felt the prophecy, and steal away into snug little places among the hay-mows and the mangers, and lay the foundation of their future brood; the climbing bitter-sweet lets fall its scarlet seeds, and the little pussies on the willows grow day by day. How eagerly I always watched these welcome signs! for even though I loved the winter, I never sorrowed at its departure in the face of coming spring, with its promises of the medleys of the birds, of unfolding buds, and those sweet shy faces soon to peep along the wood-path, and breathe their fragrance from among the withered leaves.

I remember, too, the faded butterfly, flitting about the wood-shed roof. His wings were torn and jagged at their edges, and their feathery beauty had nearly all been left among last summer's flowers. Warned by November frosts, he had sought his winter shelter in some chink or crevice among the loosened boards, where, benumbed and dormant, he had spent the winter, awaiting the warmth of the returning sun to thaw him out, and once more coax him into the outer world. As early as February, should the day be mild, he would come out of his mysterious concealment and bask in the warm sunshine. Presently he alights upon the end of a birch-log in the wood-pile, and sips the sweet exuding sap. He is soon joined by another, and another, until a swarm has gathered at the feast. As the day declines, they retire again to the wood-shed, and there, huddled together on the rafters, await their next opportunity of mild and sunny weather. Even in a January thaw I have seen one of these faded butterflies that had left his hiding-place to tantalize a troop of hens around the barn-yard door.

I remember the torrent of rain and the freshet; the broken dams and bridges washed away. The softened ground yielded up its subterranean frosts; in all the trees the winter wounds bled with the quickened pulse; the elder spigots in the sugar-maples trickled all the day; and the neighboring farms echoed with the snap of whip and voice of eager teamsters, as the busy plough turned the dark-brown furrows, or the crushing harrow combed the crumbling mould. How welcome were the evidences of returning life among the low meadow-lands, where velvety-green tufts of sprouting grass circled the borders of the marshy pools, and the golden willow twigs bathed the brook-side in a luminous glow! Here, too, the alders hung their swinging tassels or trailed them o'er the surface of the swollen stream.

One by one the feathered flocks returned, and the little snow-birds and the buntings, seeing their place usurped, left for the northward region, to lend their cheerful voices to another winter. Then came a beautiful day, with mild, earth-scented breezes, like very spring. But at night the north wind came again to reassert its power, and the earth was once more subdued beneath the snow. And so for weeks the north wind battled with the sun,

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