motes of tbe 1FU0bt 



one-time flowery pastures under a snow-bank are 

 too suggestive of the marble at the grave of a 

 friend. Now, it sometimes happens that these 

 familiar meadows, over which I could pass and 

 re-pass forever, are first submerged by the waters 

 of a January thaw, and then winter, reasserting 

 itself, checks the return of the flood by trans- 

 forming it into ice, crystal-clear and bright blue 

 by day and black as ebony by night. In the 

 light of the full moon of February, I have walked 

 over this polished floor for several miles, know- 

 ing the locality only by the protruding trees 

 and bushes. Then, if ever, we have a new world 

 wherein to wander. The sky, except immediately 

 about the moon, is intensely blue, not black, and 

 the stars are golden ; but as we see them repeated 

 beneath our feet, the reflected sky is black, and 

 stars silvery. No floor of marble or mosaic was 

 ever half so beautiful, and the play of light and 

 shade when the wind blows is very striking. The 

 long black line reaching from the root of a tree 

 outward indefinitely across the ice bends and 

 straightens, twists and turns, and with such un- 

 certain, jerky motion that you get the impression 

 that the ice is itself in motion. At first, as we 

 observe the trees and bushes that reach above 

 the ice-plain, we have a feeling of pity for their 

 apparent helplessness, but I think it more sugges- 

 tive really of rest. The wind moves their branches 

 a little, but not in the lively way of leafy days, 

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