January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In
the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every
tree. This field of winter rye which sprouted late in the fall and now
speedily dissolves the snow is where the fire is very thinly covered.
We feel warmed by it. In the winter warmth stands for all virtue, and
we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare stones shining
in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods, with as much eagerness as
rabbits and robins. The steam which rises from swamps and pools is as
dear and domestic as that of our own kettle. What fire could ever
equal the sunshine of a winter's day, when the meadow-mice come out by
the wall-sides, and the chickadee lisps in the defiles of the wood?
The warmth comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the
earth as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our backs as we are
treading some snowy dell we are grateful as for a special kindness, and
bless the sun which has followed us into that by-place.

This subterranean fire has its altar in each man's breast, for in the
coldest day, and on the bleakest hill, the traveler cherishes a warmer
fire within the folds of his cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A
healthy man, indeed, is the complement of the seasons, and in winter
summer is in his heart. There is the South. Thither have all birds
and insects migrated, and around the warm springs in his breast are
gathered the robin and the lark.

At length, having reached the edge of the woods and shut out the
gadding town, we enter within their covert as we go under the roof of a
cottage, and cross its threshold, all ceiled and banked up with snow.
They are glad and warm still, and as genial and cheery in winter as in
summer. As we stand in the midst of the pines, in the flickering and
checkered light which straggles but little way into their maze, we