How peculiar a door under gaslight – a feeling of crime – a loose sketch on the wall rattles.
Today going down Niagara Street, the brilliant sun-shine seemed like Spring—I had a vision of glistening saplings crackling in a March wind—
There is this difference between winter and summer—In summer light always seems to come from above...but in winter the sky closes in like a heavy curtain, and the only source of light is the snow—
I would be so sensitive to Nature’s moods—so close that a coming change would make itself known in the look of a house hours or even days in advance—
I ought to thank God that this flood of ideas continues unabated at the beginning of my 69th year.
Dinner at the College in honor of myself and Peter Andrews, who has donated my “December Storm”...
A dream—Someone, (possibly the publishers) had sent me an advance copy of a new book—the world as it appeared to a child (in this case, a girl)—with many illustrations by some young artist.
—at last I am free, and taking the snow shovel I clean paths—the healthy vigor with which I did this, and the joy of physical exertion were such as I have not experienced for many a day.
Here in this deep pine hollow where no wind ever comes; where the terrific gale in the outside world is but the vague rumour of roaring trees’ tops, indistinct because of the roar of waterfalls & the busy crackle of my fire — here there is always the peace of silent expectancy, eternal brooding —
Our minds revert to crackling fires in fireplaces, apples, armchairs, and nutcracking. Thanksgiving & Christmas, which no longer are religious festivals but human, are in the air.