It was in the latter end of December, upon a gloomy day that was heavy with the oppression of a coming storm. In the heart of the maple swamp all was still and cold and dead. Suddenly, as out of a tomb, I heard the small, thin cry of a tiny tree frog. And how small and thin it sounded in the vast silences of that winter swamp! And yet how clear and ringing! A thrill of life tingling out through the numb, nerveless body of the woods that has ever since made a dead day for me impossible.
That was an inspiration. I learned something, something deep and beautiful. Had I been Burns or Wordsworth I should have written a poem to Hyla. All prose as I am, I was, nevertheless, so quickened by that brave little voice as to write:—
The fields are bleak, the forests bare,
The swirling snowflakes fall
About the trees a winding-sheet,
Across the fields a pall.
A wide, dead waste, and leaden sky,
Wild winds, and dark and cold!
The river’s tongue is frozen thick,
With life’s sweet tale half told.