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Yonkers, Feb. 18th 1910 It is growing cold again. Everything is glazed with ice and the prospect from the rear of the house is almost arctic with ice-cickles [[icicles]] fringing all the fence rails & every branch glittering like a sabre. It is so slippery one can hardly stand on level ground. The Sun has gone down and the edges of the clouds are like moulten [[molten]] mettle [metal]]. The little boy stands