Publisher's Synopsis
Book Excerpt: e yard lies the drifted snow: it has transformed my wood pile into a grotesque Indian mound, and it frosts the roof of my barn like a wedding cake. I go at it lustily with my wooden shovel, clearing out a pathway to the gate.Cold, too; one of the coldest mornings we've had--but clear and very still. The sun is just coming up over the hill near Horace's farm. From Horace's chimney the white wood-smoke of an early fire rises straight upward, all golden with sunshine, into the measureless blue of the sky--on its way to heaven, for aught I know. When I reach the gate my blood is racing warmly in my veins. I straighten my back, thrust my shovel into the snow pile, and shout at the top of my voice, for I can no longer contain myself: "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 whiRead Mor
