Natures Serial Story | Page 3

growth of the soil, and quite as
capable of clothing itself with foliage in the coming spring. This in a
sense will be true when the greenery and blossoms of the wistaria,
honeysuckle, and grape-vines appear, for their fibres and tendrils have
clung to the old house so long that they may well be deemed an
inseparable part of it. Even now it seems that the warmth, light, and
comfort within are the sustaining influences which will carry them
through, the coming days of frost and storm. A tall pine-tree towers

above the northern gable of the dwelling, and it is ever sighing and
moaning to itself, as if it possessed some unhappy family secret which
it can neither reveal nor forget. On the hither side of its shade a
carriage-drive curves toward an ancient horse-block, with many a
lichen growing on the under side of the weather-beaten planks and
supports. From this platform, where guests have been alighting for a
generation or more, the drive passes to an old-fashioned carriage-house,
in which are the great family sleigh and a light and gayly painted cutter,
revealing that the home is not devoid of the young life to which
winter's most exhilarating pastime is so dear. A quaint corn-crib is near,
its mossy posts capped with inverted tin pans much corroded by rust.
These prevent prowling rats and mice from climbing up among the
golden treasures. Still further beyond are the gray old barn and stables,
facing the south. Near their doors on the sunny side of the ample yard
stand half a dozen ruminating cows, with possibly, between their
wide-branching horns, a dim consciousness of the fields, now so white
and cold, from which were cropped, in the long-past summer, far
juicier morsels than now fall to their lot. Even into their sheltered nook
the sun, far down in the south, throws but cold and watery gleams from
a steel-colored sky, and as the northern blast eddies around the
sheltering buildings the poor creatures shiver, and when their morning
airing is over are glad to return to their warm, straw-littered stalls. Even
the gallant and champion cock of the yard is chilled. With one foot
drawn up into his fluffy feathers he stands motionless in the midst of
his disconsolate harem with his eye fixed vacantly on the forbidding
outlook. His dames appear neither to miss nor to invite his attentions,
and their eyes, usually so bright and alert, often film in weary
discontent. Nature, however, is oblivious to all the dumb protests of the
barnyard, and the cold steadily strengthens.
Away on every side stretch the angular fields, outlined by fences that
are often but white, continuous mounds, and also marked by trees and
shrubs that, in their earlier life, ran the gantlet of the bush-hook. Here
and there the stones of the higher and more abrupt walls crop out, while
the board and rail fences appear strangely dwarfed by the snow that has
fallen and drifted around them. The groves and wood-crowned hills
still further away look as drearily uninviting as roofless dwellings with

icy hearthstones and smokeless chimneys. Towering above all, on the
right, is Storm King mountain, its granite rocks and precipices showing
darkly here and there, as if its huge white mantle were old and ragged
indeed. One might well shiver at the lonely, desolate wastes lying
beyond it, grim hills and early-shadowed valleys, where the
half-starved fox prowls, and watches for unwary rabbits venturing from
their coverts to nibble the frozen twigs. The river, which above the
Highlands broadens out into Newburgh Bay, has become a snowy plain,
devoid, on this bitter day, of every sign of life. The Beacon hills, on the
further side, frown forbiddingly through the intervening northern gale,
sweeping southward into the mountain gorge.
On a day like this the most ardent lover of Nature could scarcely fail to
shrink from her cold, pallid face and colder breath. Our return to the
home, whose ruddy firelight is seen through the frosted window-panes,
will be all the more welcome because we have been shivering so long
without. The grace of hospitality has been a characteristic of the master
of the house for over half a century, and therefore the reader need not
fear to enter, especially at this Christmas-time, when the world, as if to
make amends for the churlish welcome it gave to its Divine Guest, for
whom no better place was found than a stable, now throws open the
door and heart in kindly feeling and unselfish impulses.
We propose to make a long visit at this old-fashioned homestead. We
shall become the close friends of its inmates, and share in their family
life; they will introduce us to some of their neighbors, and take us on
many breezy drives and