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.
I remember how, about fifteen years ago, I came up through these very woods into the clearing where we stand, and saw old Nathan, with slouched straw hat and stoga boots, entering his front gate. He was muttering and gesticulating to himself; and on the gravel behind him he trailed along a huge steel trap and clinking chain. He evidently had a strong opinion on some subject, and I knew pretty well what that subject was.
“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.