LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW. 



SUNDAY, the eleventh day of the new year, 

 was what most people would call a good day to 

 stay in the house. The face of New England 

 winter was set. No smiling sky relieved its 

 grimness, no soft breeze promised a season of 

 relenting. The notes of the college bell were 

 muffled and the great quadrangle was deep with 

 snow, as I left Old Cambridge behind me and 

 sought the hills of Arlington three miles or 

 more to the north. Slowly climbing the 

 heights, after my car ride, I looked back at the., 

 world I had left. The sky was a mass of dull 

 gray clouds, with a copper -colored spot where 

 the sun was hiding. Boston and Cambridge lay 

 under a pall of smoke and dun-colored vapor. 

 The broken ridges from Belmont to the Middle- 

 sex Fells were buried deep in snow, the soft 

 whiteness of which was interrupted by patches 

 of dark pines, dotted with stiff cedars, or shaded 



