was shocked, the apples and pumpkins were gathered into barns.
The problem of Tom's future was finally laid before the selectmen;
and since the poor fellow's mild obstinancy had defeated all attempts
to conquer it, the sheriff took the matter in hand.

The blueberry plains looked bleak and bare enough now. It had rained
incessantly for days, growing ever colder and colder as it rained.
The sun came out at last, but it shone in a wintry sort of way,--
like a duty smile,--as if light, not heat, were its object.
A keen wind blew the dead leaves hither and thither in a wild dance
that had no merriment in it. A blackbird flew under an old barrel
by the wayside, and, ruffling himself into a ball, remarked despondently
that feathers were no sort of protection in this kind of climate.
A snowbird, flying by, glanced in at the barrel, and observed that
anybody who minded a little breeze like that had better join the woodcocks,
who were leaving for the South by the night express.

The blueberry bushes were stripped bare of green. The stunted
pines and sombre hemlocks looked in tone with the landscape now;
where all was dreary they did not seem amiss.

"Je-whilikins!" exclaimed the sheriff as he drew up his coat collar.
"A madhouse is the place for the man who wants to live ou'doors in
the winter time; the poor-farm is too good for him."

But Tom was used to privation, and even to suffering.
"Ou'doors" was the only home he knew, and with all its rigors he loved it.
He looked over the barren plains, knowing, in a dull sort of way,
that they would shortly be covered with snow; but he had three coats,
two of them with sleeves, and the crunch-crunch of the snow