its wings so little that they seemed an emblem of powerful
repose.

"That is a white-headed eagle," said Winthrop.

"I know him!" said the naturalist, still gazing. "I wish I had
him; -- but _dat_ is a thing in which is no goot; as he is too
far off for me to reach him. Better for him! And it will be
better for us to go home, for the day is not very long."

Neither was Mr. Herder's stay in the mountains after that. At
parting he assured Winthrop "he should be very glad to do him
all the goot he could do, if he would only let him know how."

This was just after the fall of the leaf. The winter was a
mild one, and so fruitful in business belonging to the farm
that Winthrop's own private concerns had little chance. Latin
was pushed a little, and Greek entered upon; neither of them
could be forwarded much, with all the stress that hope or
despair could make. Snowstorm, and thaw, and frost, and sun,
came after and after each other, and as surely and constantly
the various calls upon Winthrop's time; and every change
seemed to put itself between him and his books. Mr. Landholm
was kept late in Vantassel, by a long session, and the early
spring business came all upon his son's hands.

Letters were rather infrequent things in those days, waiting,
as they usually did, for private carriage. It was near the end
of March that the rare event of two letters in one day
happened to the quiet little household.