. American cookery . OUT OF THE ICE IN APRIL? 494 AMERICAN COOKERY winter drives the country boy back fromthe citys dirty snow? It was not thesummer heat that drove the countryboy from New York, says WalterPritchard Eaton, it was the snowlesswinter. Winter without the dramaticentrance of the storm, winter without thehappy ending of silver brooks alive inevery road. The summer houses are boarded say plainly no one is at home. And then comes the red house. Ilike them so. White in summer whenthe maples stand a shady green at thefront, but red and warm in winter whenthe ground is wh
. American cookery . OUT OF THE ICE IN APRIL? 494 AMERICAN COOKERY winter drives the country boy back fromthe citys dirty snow? It was not thesummer heat that drove the countryboy from New York, says WalterPritchard Eaton, it was the snowlesswinter. Winter without the dramaticentrance of the storm, winter without thehappy ending of silver brooks alive inevery road. The summer houses are boarded say plainly no one is at home. And then comes the red house. Ilike them so. White in summer whenthe maples stand a shady green at thefront, but red and warm in winter whenthe ground is white and the winds hail the roof, as has many anotherwayfarer, for The only reason a road is good, as everywanderer knows, Is just because of the homes, the homes,the homes to which it goes. A warmth of lamplight streams fromthe sitting room window. Mrs. Has-brook stands in the doorway with awelcome as round and jolly as herself,and an honest glow to her greeting likethat in the light she carries. There is . /. THE CURVING, UPWARD ROAD; THE HILLSWITH THEIR DARK TRACINGS OF WOODS the fragrance of steaming supper. Fluffybiscuits, maple syrup from the pasturetrees, home-made sausage, and mincepie made from the heart of the little pigwhich grew up on the farm last could refuse even a little pigsheart, — beneath a crust, to be sure, —but when you reach it, oh very tender! In the night the thermometer know its summer capabilities, andnow we are to learn what it can do belowthe zero mark in Tramworth. We open the window and dash underthe covers. In the morning we draw lotsto see who will close it, then scamper tothe sitting room and dress near the fire. Through the frosted panes we can seeenough of the outside world to be veryconfident we should like to see muchmore. Getting ready to go out is anarduous process. Three pairs of woolensocks, two sweaters, the lacing of mocas-sins, the tying of snowshoes. Rover, thebig Newfoundland, wants to go with w
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