274 



WINTER PLEASURES IN THE COUNTRY. 



and where, by the mossy trunk of some great 

 tree, the scarlet berries scatter food for par- 

 tridges, and " spread their table in the wil- 

 derness ? " Or is there no pleasure in making 

 preparations for the wintry sleep of your gar- 

 den ? (surely, you have a garden,) covering 

 the tenderer plants with leaves or straw, till 

 the kind snow shall cover them more surely — 

 selecting frail Verbenas, and favorite Roses, 

 for house treasures — or cherishing a little pot 

 of Mignonette, to fill the warm parlor with its 

 odor ? Don't you love to watch the noisy, 

 restless, strange creatures, the crows, wheel- 

 ing about the gray trees, exulting on the 

 strong wind as if it were a chariot, or perched 

 on a rail, shining, and musing in the clear 

 sunshine ? There is to me a pleasure, when 

 the eaves are dripping with a thaw, in stand- 

 ing by a barn-yard, and seeing the mild-faced 

 cows enjoying the warmth of its snug, southern 

 exposure ; there they " chew the cud," which 

 has in it no " bitter fancy," and look in your 

 face so meekly but inquiringly, that you must 

 think, whether you will or no, of " ox-eyed 

 Juno ;" and upon that suggestion, your ima- 

 gination wanders oflF, and away through years 

 and distance, till — a turkey struts and gobbles 

 defiantly in one corner — or a solitary hen, 

 picking her way, on yellow legs, flits across the 

 yard, and showing off" all her airs and graces 

 to the stranger — brings you back to real life. 

 I think one reason why country girls find 

 their homes dull in the winter, is the want of 

 a keen sense of the Beautiful. This seems, 

 perhaps, absurd ; yet, when I see how much 

 true and pure enjoyment springs from such a 

 sense, and how little it is cultivated, I must 

 regret it — too deeply to be silent. Many of 

 you have a true appreciation of the Beautiful 

 in literature ; you enjoy books intensely, but 

 you do not think of opening the same eyes, 

 that grow weary over page after page of print- 

 ing, to the deep interest of the varied stories 

 of earth and sky. The winter sunsets, oh I 



how splendid they are ; even if no pile of 

 gold and purple clouds lower in the west, yet 

 the pure tints of azure-sea-green and yellow, 

 that deepen to the centre of the sinking light, 

 are most exquisite. Then come the hosts of 

 night — the old, mysterious stars, trembling 

 with concentred brightness, and writing over 

 the deep blue heaven wild legends of the past, 

 dim prophesies of the future. The moon, too, 

 casts the long shadows of tall trees and hills 

 over the spotless snow, and, like a song of 

 happy spirits, comes the distant sound of 

 sleigh-bells, so mixed with laughter and clear 

 voices you cannot separate them in sound or 

 thought. Walking, too, is still delightful, if 

 you will only wear thick and water-proof shoes ; 

 the scramble over a drifted road — the swift 

 slide upon the glassy pond — even the more 

 difl&cult accomplishment of " picking your 

 way," when neither frost nor rain has supreme 

 sway, — these all have the pleasure inseparable 

 from an eager effort to conquer obstacles. 

 Then, too, the strong north-west wind comes 

 to steady the wavering steps ; leaning against 

 its pressure, how we become re-assured, as if 

 suddenly supported ; or fighting homeward in 

 the face of its trumpet-like blast, how the 

 whole frame thrills with intense life, as the 

 quickened tide of vitality glows on cheek and 

 lip. But I am getting too earnest on my 

 hobby. A recent, short experience of city 

 life, with its noises, sights, and confusion, has 

 sent me home, to ray own wide horizon and 

 fresh air, quite unqualified to s}"mpathize with 

 those who are discontented in the country. I 

 will not let Mr. Downing have another quiet 

 smile over my pedantry, so I forbear to quote 

 a certain dead language, that speaks of the 

 "happy husbandman." I only may say, in 

 plain English, that I wish you all, my dear 

 rustic sisters, were as happy in being dwellers 

 in the country, as your frost-bitten 



Wild Flower. 



In the Bushes, November, 1850. 



