A TEMPEST. 13 



termittent in its pressure as natural forces can 

 be ; yet it seemed to excite vibration and rhythm 

 in all it touched. The tops of the pines fell and 

 rose, the branches moved forward and back, the 

 roar of the wind pulsated and the soft surface 

 of the snow was not even, but broken into tiny 

 waves. In the pine woods the wind was less 

 violent, but the passing snow seemed like vibrat- 

 ing white lines rather than flakes. As I stood 

 in the pines and looked northeast, every tree was 

 black against a distance of on-coming white 

 rage. As I looked southwest every tree was 

 white, finely outlined in black, against a retreat- 

 ing mass of colorless motion. If I looked south- 

 east the trees were black and white, and if north- 

 west they were white and black, and whichever 

 way I looked the air was surging on, laden with 

 the bewildered and bewildering snow. 



Pushing on I entered a deep and rocky gorge. 

 Possibly Verestchagin's brush could indicate the 

 absolute whiteness overlaid upon the less abso- 

 lute white of that mysteriously beautiful spot. 

 Certainly nothing else could. Every rock, bush, 

 trunk, limb, branchlet, twig and leaf -bud was 

 covered with the clinging snow. Beyond was an 

 oak wood. The inelastic ice of last Sunday failed 

 to bend these stubborn trees, but the wet, sticky 

 snow had overcome them. Dozens of slender 

 young oaks, thirty feet in height, were bent to 



