this--one thinks. I may meet friends I have not seen before in years.
Who knows? I may discover that this is a far better and kindlier world
than I had ever dreamed it could be.

[Illustration: "Merry Christmas, Harriet!"]

So I sing out to Harriet as I go down:

"Merry Christmas, Harriet"--and not waiting for her sleepy reply I go
down and build the biggest, warmest, friendliest fire of the year. Then
I get into my thick coat and mittens and open the back door. All around
the sill, deep on the step, and all about the 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!"