Winter settling in. Winter coats, boots, hats, and gloves accumulating in the kitchen. One pair of gloves I pulled out had wood chips on them from the last firewood season. Throw rug out of mothballs on which to deposit snowy boots when coming inside. Sighing of the iron pot on the wood stove when getting up in the middle of the night. Season of chapstick.
In the deepest snows, the path which I used from the highway to my house...might have been represented by a meandering dotted line, with wide intervals between the dots. For a week of even weather I took exactly the same number of steps, and of the same length, coming and going, stepping deliberately and with the precision of a pair of dividers in my own deep tracks,- to such routine the winter reduces us,- yet often they were filled with heaven's own blue.
Former inhabitants and winter visitors
Walden
Henry Davis Thoreau
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