“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 cannot at all explain it, but at such moments the circuit of that dim spiritual battery which each of us conceals within seems to close, and the full current of contentment flows through our lives.

All the morning as I went about my chores I had a peculiar sense of expected pleasure.  It seemed certain to me that something unusual and adventurous was about to happen—­and if it did not happen offhand, why I was there to make it happen!  When I went in to breakfast (do you know the fragrance of broiling bacon when you have worked for an hour before breakfast on a morning of zero weather?  If you do not, consider that heaven still has gifts in store for you!)—­when I went in to breakfast, I fancied that Harriet looked preoccupied, but I was too busy just then (hot corn muffins) to make an inquiry, and I knew by experience that the best solvent of secrecy is patience.

“David,” said Harriet, presently, “the cousins can’t come!”

“Can’t come!” I exclaimed.

“Why, you act as if you were delighted.”

“No—­well, yes,” I said, “I knew that some extraordinary adventure was about to happen!”