THE 



JOURNAL OF RURAL ART AM) RURAL TASTE. 



Vol. hi. 



DECEMBER, 1848. 



No. 6. 



December, here in the north, is certainly a 

 cold month. Yes, one does nut look for 

 primroses under the hedges, nor gather vio- 

 lets in the valleys, often, at this season. 

 One must be content to enjoy a bright sky 

 over head, and a frosty walk under foot ; 

 one must find pleasure in the anatomy of 

 trees, and the grand outline of hills and 

 mountains half covered with snow. And 

 then, to be sure, there are the evergreens. 

 What a pleasant thing it is to see how 

 bravely they stand their ground, and bid de- 

 fiance even to zero; especially those two 

 fine old veterans, the Hemlock and the 

 White Pine. They, indeed, smile defiance 

 at all the attacks of the Ice King. It is not 

 easy to make a winter landscape dull or 

 gloomy where they stand, ready as they 

 are at all times with such a sturdy look of 

 wholesome content in every bough. 



That must be an insipid climate, depend 

 upon it, where there is " summer all the 

 year round." In an ideal point of view, — 

 that is, for angels and "beatitudes" — it is, 

 nay, it must be, quite perfect. Their sen- 

 sations never wear out. But to us, poor 

 mortals, compounded as we are of such a 

 moiety of clay, and alas, too many of us 

 full of inconstancy, — always demanding va- 

 riety — always looking for a change — weary- 

 VoL. III. 17 



ing, as the angels do not, of things which 

 ought to satisfy any reasonable creature 

 forever ; no, even perpetual summer will 

 not do for us. Winter, keen and frosty 

 winter, comes to brace up our languid 

 nerves. It acts like a long night's sleep, 

 after a day full of exciting events. Spring 

 comes back again to us like a positively new 

 miracle! To watch all these black and 

 leafless trees suddenly become draped with 

 green again, to see the ice-bound and snow- 

 clad earth, now so dead and cold, abso- 

 lutely bud and grow warm with new life, — 

 that, certainly, is ajoy which never animates 

 the soul of our fellow beings of the equator. 

 " But the winter, the long winter — with- 

 out verdure — without foliage — without 

 flowers — all so bleak and barren." Softly, 

 warm weather friend, open this little glazed 

 door, out of the parlor, even now, while the 

 icicles hang from the eaves, and what do 

 you see ? Truly a cheering and enliven- 

 ing prospect, we think ; a little miniature 

 tropical scene, separated from the outer 

 frost-world only by a few panes of glass, 

 and yet as gay and blooming as the valley 

 of Cashmere in June. What can be purer 

 than these pure, spotless double white, — 

 what richer than these rich, parti-coloured 

 Camellias? What more delicate than 



