Thanksgiving came, with its feasting, its gathering of old friends and relatives about the fireside, and all its happiness, and Roger thought it was the jolliest holiday of the year. Never was there such a big, crisp-brown roasted turkey, never so much cranberry sauce, never such stacks of white celery, never such good gravy, such sweet hickory nuts, such white popcorn, such rosy-cheeked apples, nor such fine cider. The meal lasted all day, and at night every one voted they had enough to last them a week. December saw Cardiff snowbound, and for a week the village was cut off from communication with the other towns because of the big drifts that filled the valley. Christmas brought the usual joys, and Roger was well remembered by the folks at home. There was a welcome letter, also, from his father, in which Mr. Anderson said how glad he was that his son's health was improving so rapidly. Then there was a box that contained some books that he had long wished for and a bright five-dollar gold-piece. The new year came, and winter, with all its old-fashioned severity, held Cardiff tight and fast. It snowed, and snowed, and snowed again. Then there was nothing to do but stay in the house, or after a trip to the barn and the finishing of the chores to journey to the village store. Adrian began to attend school, and occasionally Roger went with him, to sit in the classroom, and listen to the recitations. But there was plenty of time before and after school, for fun. The two boys went coasting and skating, and it was at these sports Roger found he had much to learn from his cousin and the other country boys, who could glide along over the frozen mill pond, from morning until night, and never seem to tire. "Wa'al," remarked Mr. Kimball, as he came home from Hank Mack's store, one cold night, stamping the snow from his boots in the wood-shed, "wa'al, I hope it's cloudy t'-morrow." "Why?" asked Roger, who thought the more sun there was in winter the better it must be. "Why? So's thi' b'ar won't see his shadder." "What if he does see his shadow?" "Land a' Goshen, th' boy never hearn tell a' Candlemas Day," ejaculated Mr. Kimball. "You see," he explained, "there's an ole sayin' 'n' I got it from my granddad, thet goes suthin' like this: Candlemas Day, half yer pork, 'n' half yer hay.' Thet means, 'cordin' t' my way a' thinkin' thet t'-morrow's 'bout th' middle a' winter, 'n' a keerful farmer'll only hev half his produce eat up. Ye know b'ars go inter holler logs t' sleep all winter. Come February second, which is Candlemas Day, there's a theory they come out t' see how th' weather is.