So the winter set in cold and glittering.  Everything out-of-doors was sheathed in silver mail.  To quote from Charley Marden, it was “cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey,”—­an observation which seemed to me extremely happy, though I knew little or nothing concerning the endurance of brass monkeys, having never seen one.

I had looked forward to the advent of the season with grave apprehensions, nerving myself to meet dreary nights and monotonous days; but summer itself was not more jolly than winter at Rivermouth.  Snow-balling at school, skating on the Mill Pond, coasting by moonlight, long rides behind Gypsy in a brand-new little sleigh built expressly for her, were sports no less exhilarating than those which belonged to the sunny months.  And then Thanksgiving!  The nose of Memory—­why shouldn’t Memory have a nose?—­dilates with pleasure over the rich perfume of Miss Abigail’s forty mince-pies, each one more delightful than the other, like the Sultan’s forty wives.  Christmas was another red-letter day, though it was not so generally observed in New England as it is now.

The great wood-fire in the tiled chimney-place made our sitting-room very cheerful of winter nights.  When the north-wind howled about the eaves, and the sharp fingers of the sleet tapped against the window-panes, it was nice to be so warmly sheltered from the storm.  A dish of apples and a pitcher of chilly cider were always served during the evening.  The Captain had a funny way of leaning back in the chair, and eating his apple with his eyes closed.  Sometimes I played dominos with him, and sometimes Miss Abigail read aloud to us, pronouncing “to” toe, and sounding all the eds.

In a former chapter I alluded to Miss Abigail’s managing propensities.  She had affected many changes in the Nutter House before I came there to live; but there was one thing against which she had long contended without being able to overcome.  This was the Captain’s pipe.  On first taking command of the household, she prohibited smoking in the sitting-room, where it had been the old gentleman’s custom to take a whiff or two of the fragrant weed after meals.  The edict went forth—­and so did the pipe.  An excellent move, no doubt; but then the house was his, and if he saw fit to keep a tub of tobacco burning in the middle of the parlor floor, he had a perfect right to do so.  However, he humored her in this as in other matters, and smoked by stealth, like a guilty creature, in the barn, or about the gardens.  That was practicable in summer, but in winter the Captain was hard put to it.  When he couldn’t stand it longer, he retreated to his bedroom and barricaded the door.  Such was the position of affairs at the time of which I write.

One morning, a few days after the great snow, as Miss Abigail was dusting the chronometer in the ball, she beheld Captain Nutter slowly descending the staircase, with a long clay pipe in his mouth.  Miss Abigail could hardly credit her own eyes.