otted on each twig with the buds of next year's
promise. The fleecy and rosy clouds look all the more beautiful through
the dark lace veil of yonder magnificent elms; and the down-drooping
drapery of yonder willow hath its own grace of outline as it sweeps the
bare snows. And these comical old apple trees, why, in summer they look
like so many plump, green cushions, one as much like another as
possible; but under the revealing light of winter every characteristic
twist and jerk stands disclosed.

One might moralize on this--how affliction, which strips us of all
ornaments and accessories, and brings us down to the permanent and solid
wood of our nature, develops such wide differences in people who before
seemed not much distinct.

But here! our pony's feet are now clinking on the icy path under the
shadow of the white pines of "our wood lot." The path runs in a deep
hollow, and on either hand rise slopes dark and sheltered with the
fragrant white pine. White pines are favorites with us for many good
reasons. We love their balsamic breath, the long, slender needles of
their leaves, and, above all, the constant sibylline whisperings that
never cease among their branches. In summer the ground beneath them is
paved with a soft and cleanly matting of their last year's leaves; and
then their talking seems to be of coolness ever dwelling far up in their
fringy, waving hollows. And now, in winter time, we find the same smooth
floor; for the heavy curtains above shut out the snow, and the same
voices above whisper of shelter and quiet. "You are welcome," they say;
"the north wind is gone to sleep; we are rocking him in our cradles. Sit
down and be quiet from the cold." At the feet of these slumberous old
pines we find many of our last summer's friends looking as good as new.
The small, round-leafed partridgeberry weaves its viny mat, and lays out
its scarlet fruit; and here are blackberry vines with leaves still
green, though with a bluish tint, not unlike what invades mortal noses
in such weather. Here, too, are the bright, varnished leaves of the
Indian pine, and the vines of feathery green of which our Christmas
garlands are made; and here, undaunted, though frozen to the very heart
this cold day, is many another leafy thing which we met last summer
rejoicing each in its own peculiar flower. What names they have received
from scientific god-fathers at the botanic fount we know not; we have
always known them by fairy nickname