s which have stood open all winter to allow ingress
to huge sled-loads of fire-wood. Tread carefully over the soft snow which
'slumps' at every step, and let us take a look at the barn-yard down
yonder, across the way from the farm-house.

Now is there not some poetry here? That yoke of brindle-oxen standing
under the dripping eaves chewing their cud; can you not see gladness in
their broad faces? There is old Line-back, the cow that fifteen years ago
used to have the same corner. I wonder if she recognizes me? She is graver
than the other cows; red and black, around her butt; the tuft of wool on
her horns shows that she retains her old spirit, and does not allow the
dainty sheep that crowd around us, to pick out the most savory portions of
her hay, without asserting her rights of priority. There, flocking in the
hay-loft door, over the cow-house, are the cackling multitude which we
heard awhile ago. They were probably instigated to their clamor by the
'cut-cut-ca-da-cut' of some young hen who had laid the first egg of the
season. The rest replying, no doubt, that they severally had done the same
at some spring-time anterior, but now for the first time thought of
mentioning so trifling a circumstance. Peter sagely opines that they are
holding a tea party! Let us drop into the 'grain-barn' and see what Hans'
little brothers are raising such a children's noise about. There goes Jim
from the highest scaffold into the straw at the bottom of the 'deep bay.'
Billy is just preparing to jump too; and Sid, a little more lazy, is but
half up the upper ladder. Sid sees us, and without saying a word, begins
to climb down again. This draws Billy's attention, and crying 'Hans has
come home! Hans has come!' springs off, half smothering poor Jim in his
descent. There, now, Peter, after seeing me kiss my brothers, don't accuse
me of possessing a cold heart, merely because I don't happen to love the
women. What is a woman, but flesh and blood after all? Do you think those
black, flashing eyes and rosy cheeks and swelling bosom, and those warm
lips which breathe soft deceit the while you press them, are any thing
more than 'common clay?' I have seen many lovely ones, yet as Byron hath
it:

'Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.'

I wish, friend Peter, that we could stay a fortnight to enjoy the opening
of spring, but as we must wend our way eastward day after tomorrow, we