ransformed my wood pile into a grotesque Indian mound, and
it frosts the roof of my barn like a wedding cake. I go at it lustily
with my wooden shovel, clearing out a pathway to the gate.

Cold, too; one of the coldest mornings we've had--but clear and very
still. The sun is just coming up over the hill near Horace's farm. From
Horace's chimney the white wood-smoke of an early fire rises straight
upward, all golden with sunshine, into the measureless blue of the
sky--on its way to heaven, for aught I know. When I reach the gate my
blood is racing warmly in my veins. I straighten my back, thrust my
shovel into the snow pile, and shout at the top of my voice, for I can
no longer contain myself:

"Merry Christmas, Harriet."

Harriet opens the door--just a crack.

"Merry Christmas yourself, you Arctic explorer! Oo--but it's cold!"

And she closes the door.

Upon hearing these riotous sounds the barnyard suddenly awakens. I hear
my horse whinnying from the barn, the chickens begin to crow and cackle,
and such a grunting and squealing as the pigs set up from behind the
straw stack, it would do a man's heart good to hear!

"It's a friendly world," I say to myself, "and full of business."

I plow through the snow to the stable door. I scuff and stamp the snow
away and pull it open with difficulty. A cloud of steam arises out of
the warmth within. I step inside. My horse raises his head above the
stanchion, looks around at me, and strikes his forefoot on the stable
floor--the best greeting he has at his command for a fine Christmas
morning. My cow, until now silent, begins to bawl.

I lay my hand on the horse's flank and he steps over in his stall to let
me go by. I slap his neck and he lays back his ears playfully. Thus I go
out into the passageway and give my horse his oats, throw corn and
stalks to the pigs and a handful of grain to Harriet's chickens (it's
the only way to stop the cackling!). And thus presently the barnyard is
quiet again except for the sound of contented feeding.

Take my word for it, this is one of the pleasant moments of life. I
stand and look long at my barnyard family. I observe with satisfaction
how plump they are and how well they are bearing the winter. Then I look
up at my mountainous straw stack with its capping of snow, and my corn
crib with the yellow ears visible through the slats, and my barn with
its mow full of hay--all the gatherings of the year, now being expended
in growth. I ca