The First Day of Winter 1864

The First Day of Winter 1864

It was a long time since I had taken a walk. I had plodded along demurely through the streets, had waded through its wind, along with other sober, sensible people, who go soberly about their daily tasks, with knit brows, and thoughts in their pockets, or bent upon placing "greenbacks" in them, if their thoughts were not there already.

But this was not taking a walk such as I wanted, such as I needed, and such as I meant to have. The gentle breeze was whispering its sweet secrets in my ear, and the warm sunlight, so long hidden by the gray, ashen clouds of November, was wooing me to come out and enjoy the-first-bright-smile of winter. I was longing to leave behind me the gray haired woman, whose furrowed brow greets me in the mirror, instead of the laughing, rosy-cheeked girl that used to look smiling back into my eyes from its mysterious depths.

For in my heart, the girl lives still; and the sedate old woman is a stranger not easy to get acquainted with, even though she has put her mask over my features, stolen the roses from my cheek, and planted wrinkles in their place. I never half believed in her, and sometimes look into her eyes in the glass, and question them, as I would those of a stranger.

But the child that I was, though driven from my face, has hidden in my heart, and

"will not grow old". And the old time child impuls es were stirring with new life, won by "the sweet persuasions" of that warm, genial winter day.

And this was why, the child and I, if indeed the child were not me, were longing to escape from the vigillance of the woman and ramble at will among the green, mossy dells, where we used to play.

And I was going a visiting, but would not wait for the coming carriage, nor for the kindly neighbor who was to pass and stop for me. For I wanted to walk, and not to ride. And did I not know that my best visit would be in the woods, where no voice would greet my ear, but the deep, mysterious voice of the wind, whispering his old tales among the trees, or the winding stream singing its low, sweet song among the mosses?

There was a whispering of all this, singing itself in my heart as I started, and hastened toward the old woods, whose swaying boughs seemed to beacon to me from the distance.

The brown earth was stiff, and crisp beneath my feet, but the sky above was blue and cloudless ; and there was something in the air, even then, when Winter had but just grasped his scepter, and seated himself upon his icy throne, that seemed like a prophecy of the coming springtime.