s of our own--the pet names of
endearment which lie between Nature's children and us in her domestic
circle.

There is something peculiarly sweet to us about a certain mystical
dreaminess and obscurity in these wild wood tribes, which we never wish
to have brought out into the daylight of absolute knowledge. Every one
of them was a self-discovered treasure of our childhood, as much our own
as if God had made it on purpose and presented it; and it was ever a
part of the joy to think we had found something that no one else knew,
and so musing on them, we gave them names in our heart.

We search about amid the sere, yellow skeletons of last summer's ferns,
if haply winter have forgotten one green leaf for our home vase--in vain
we rake, freezing our fingers through our fur gloves--there is not one.
An icicle has pierced every heart; and there are no fern leaves except
those miniature ones which each plant is holding in its heart, to be
sent up in next summer's hour of joy. But here are mosses--tufts of all
sorts; the white, crisp and crumbling, fair as winter frostwork; and
here the feathery green of which French milliners make moss rose buds;
and here the cup-moss--these we gather with some care, frozen as they
are to the wintry earth.

Now, stumbling up this ridge, we come to a little patch of hemlocks,
spreading out their green wings, and making, in the ravine, a deep
shelter, where many a fresh springing thing is standing, and where we
gain much for our home vases. These pines are motherly creatures. One
can think how it must rejoice the heart of a partridge or a rabbit to
come from the dry, whistling sweep of a deciduous forest under the
home-like shadow of their branches. "As for the stork, the fir trees are
her house," says the Hebrew poet; and our fir trees, this winter, give
shelter to much small game. Often, on the light-fallen snow, I meet
their little footprints. They have a naive, helpless, innocent
appearance, these little tracks, that softens my heart like a child's
footprint. Not one of them is forgotten of our Father; and therefore I
remember them kindly.

And now, with cold toes and fingers, and arms full of leafy treasures,
we plod our way back to the chaise. A pleasant song is in my ears from
this old wood lot--it speaks of green and cheerful patience in life's
hard weather. Not a scowling, sullen endurance, not a despairing,
hand-dropping resignation, but a heart cheerfulness that holds on to
ever