The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered around the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation.

Winter approaches. Christmas grows closer…

Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in the Willows. United Kingdom, Welbeck Editions, 2021. p81