The trees stood with bare branches. The leaves rustled¹ over the earth or floated on the pond. The reeds were all cut down; the water-lily's leaves withered² away, with stalks and all, while she, deep down at the bottom, slept her winter sleep and dreamt of her next white spring costume.

 

And down at the bottom lay all the frogs, buried deep in the mud, so that only their noses stuck out. It looked as though the pond were paved with frogs' noses. The plants in the water were as leafless as the plants on land. Hidden among the stalks and withered leaves, under the stones and in the mud lay animals sleeping, or eggs waiting for the spring to come and hatch them.

 

 

All the birds had flown, except the chaffinch and a few others, who hopped³ about and managed as best they could. The flies were all gone and the dragon-flies and spiders and midges and butterflies and all the rest. There were only a few grumpy fish left in the pond.

 

And the storm raged among the trees, till they cracked and creaked, and whipped the pond up into tall waves with foam⁴ on their crests⁵.

 

"It is really horrid⁶ here in winter," said the woman of the pond, as she stuffed her windows with moss⁷. "Such a howling in the chimney and a creaking and cracking in the wood and a roaring and rushing in the pond! I wish we had the glorious summer again. That is a happy time and peaceful time. Then it's pleasant living by the pond."

 

A poet, accompanied by seven ladies, walked on the path around the pond.

 

He wore a fur-lined coat and turned the collar over his ears; and the ladies were wrapped up so that nothing showed but the tips of their noses. For it was very cold.

 

"Ladies," said the poet, "when you look at that wild unsightly pond now, you have simply no idea how charming it can be in summer. Now, all these elements have been let loose. Waves rage against waves, the storm rushes round and the trees stand naked and

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