Among the sweet winter sounds, that are as good to listen to as the songs of the summer birds, you should hear: the loud joyous cackling of the hens on a sunny January day; the munching of horses at night when the wild winds are whistling about the barn; the quiet hum about the hives,—
“When come the calm mild days, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home.”
And then, the sound of the first rain on the shingles—the first February rain after a long frozen period! How it spatters the shingles with spring—spring—spring!
“ONE OF THE COVEY CALLING THE FLOCK TOGETHER”
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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.