WINTER PICTURES. 



A WHITE DAY AND A BED FOX. 



THE day was indeed white, as white as three feet 

 of snow and a cloudless St. Valentine's sun could 

 make it. The eye could not look forth without 

 blinking, or veiling itself with tears. The patch of 

 plowed ground on the top of the hill where the wind 

 had blown the snow away was as welcome to it as 

 water to a parched tongue. It was the one refresh- 

 ing oasis in this desert of dazzling light. I sat down 

 upon it to let the eye bathe and revel in it. It took 

 away the smart like a poultice. For so gentle and, 

 on the whole, so beneficent an element, the snow as- 

 serts itself very loudly. It takes the world quickly 

 und entirely to itself. It makes no concessions or 

 compromises, but rules despotically. It baffles and 

 bewilders the eye, and it returns the sun glare for 

 glare. Its coming in our winter climate is the hand 

 of mercy to the earth and to everything in its bosom, 

 but it is a barrier and an embargo to everything that 

 moves above. 



We toiled up the long steep hill where only an oc- 

 casional mullein-stalk or other tall weed stood abova 



