——­“Frank!—­Clarence!”—­the tears forbid any more.

“God bless you, Madge!  God bless you!”

* * * * *

And thus in peace and in joy MANHOOD passes on into the third season of our life—­even as golden AUTUMN sinks slowly into the tomb of WINTER.

WINTER;

OR,

THE DREAMS OF AGE

DREAMS OF AGE.

Winter.

Slowly, thickly, fastly, fall the snow-flakes,—­like the seasons upon the life of man.  At the first they lose themselves in the brown mat of herbage, or gently melt, as they fall upon the broad stepping-stone at the door.  But as hour after hour passes, the feathery flakes stretch their white cloak plainly on the meadow, and chilling the doorstep with their multitude, cover it with a mat of pearl.

The dried grass-tips pierce the mantle of white, like so many serried spears; but as the storm goes softly on, they sink one by one to their snowy tomb, and presently show nothing of all their army, save one or two straggling banners of blackened and shrunken daisies.

Across the wide meadow that stretches from my window, I can see nothing of those hills which were so green in summer; between me and them lie only the soft, slow-moving masses, filling the air with whiteness I catch only a glimpse of one gaunt and bare-armed oak, looming through the feathery multitude like a tall ship’s spars breaking through fog.

The roof of the barn is covered; and the leaking eaves show dark stains of water that trickle down the weather-beaten boards.  The pear-trees, that wore such weight of greenness in the leafy June, now stretch their bare arms to the snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny bough a narrow burden of winter.

The old house-dog marches stately through the strange covering of earth, and seems to ponder on the welcome he will show,—­and shakes the flakes from his long ears, and with a vain snap at a floating feather he stalks again to his dry covert in the shed.  The lambs that belonged to the meadow flock, with their feeding-ground all covered, seem to wonder at their losses; but take courage from the quiet air of the veteran sheep, and gambol after them, as they move sedately toward the shelter of the barn.

The cat, driven from the kitchen-door, beats a coy retreat, with long reaches of her foot, upon the yielding surface.  The matronly hens saunter out at a little lifting of the storm, and eye curiously, with heads half turned, their sinking steps, and then fall back, with a quiet cluck of satisfaction, to the wholesome gravel by the stable-door.

By-and-by the snow-flakes pile more leisurely:  they grow large and scattered, and come more slowly than before.  The hills, that were brown, heave into sight—­great, rounded billows of white.  The gray woods look shrunken to half their height, and stand waving in the storm.  The wind freshens, and scatters the light flakes that crown the burden of the snow; and as the day droops, a clear, bright sky of steel color cleaves the land and clouds, and sends down a chilling wind to bank the walls and to freeze the storm.  The moon rises full and round, and plays with a joyous chill over the glistening raiment of the land.