It is surprising to go into a N. E. town in mid-winter and find its five thousand inhabitants all living thus on the limits, confined at most to their narrow moose-yard in the snow. Scarcely here and there has a citizen stepped aside one foot to let a sled pass. And about as circumscribed is their summer life, going out from house to shop, and back to house again. If, Indian-like, one examined the dew or beaded grass, he would be surprised to discover how little trodden or frequented the surrounding fields were. . . . It is as if some vigilance committee had given notice that if any should transgress these narrow limits, he should be outlawed and his blood should be upon his own head.
Feb. 3, 1858. . . . I do not see this year, and I do not know that I ever have seen, any unseasonable swelling of the buds of indigenous plants in mild winters.
Feb. 3, 1859. Five minutes before 3 p. m. father died. . . . I have touched a body which was flexible and warm, yet tenantless—warmed by what fire? When the spirit that animated some matter has left it, who else, what else, can animate it?
How enduring are our bodies after all! The forms of our brothers and sisters, our parents and children and wives, lie still in the hills and fields round about us, not to mention those of
