It was still the middle of February, and as yet there was little indication of spring. The snow lay deep upon the ground, the eaves rarely dripped by day, and the nights were cold and crisp.
As soon as the sun went down and it began to grow dusk, the North Wind would come driving his white-maned horses over the snow at a gallop; and sometimes, when he got to driving too recklessly, you would hear his steeds come bang against the side of the house.
Under the snow, the Daffy-down-dillies were sleeping soundly; or perhaps they dreamed occasionally of spring. So cold it was, and so wintry, that you may imagine my astonishment, on going to the barn one morning, to find Old Speck setting.
"Why, you foolish old hen," I said, "you don't want any chickens this time of the year; they would all freeze to death." I put my hand down to push her off the nest; but she pecked savagely at me, and said "Curr, curr," which means in her language, "Go away, I want to set, I want some chickens."
