motes of tbe 



Such conditions, lacking adventure and wild 

 life is rarely seen here at such a time soon be- 

 come tiresome. We lose ourselves in our own 

 thoughts and forget where we are. The fantastic 

 finger- work of frost is not detected as we pass by, 

 or very rarely. 



On my return I found the satiny seed-vessels 

 of dioscorea resting upon the ice. Feathery frost 

 was adhering to their angles, and these, catching 

 the moonbeams, glistened like jewels. It was a 

 pretty sight, but not so charming as these same 

 objects resting on the frozen crust of snow, for at 

 times, like the crimson and black fruits of autumn, 

 they hold on until winter is well nigh spent. 



The imperious north wind speaks with pre- 

 cision. You obey or suffer, and no time is left for 

 hesitation. I heard the shrill threat of yet greater 

 cold, and hurried homeward, careless of what came 

 after I was beyond call. After ! There are some 

 small words so full of meaning that they forever 

 overflow, and you never see them, but they are 

 dripping with suggestion. " After " is one of them. 



After the seed-time, the harvest ; after winter, 

 spring ; after summer, autumn. After the day, the 

 night, and now, reversing the order, after the 

 night these long nights out of doors, nights 

 of moonlight and of darkness, of heat and cold, 

 of sound and silence what of the busy day ? 

 Much or little, as you choose to make of it. 

 And at last, what time " Night lets her sable 

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