1 6 IValks in New England 



call one tremendous day of northwest wind, in 

 which an inch or two of light snow mounted to 

 drifts here and there six or eight feet high. The 

 wind was 50 miles an hour on the top of the 

 Berkshire hills, but as one faced the sunset extraor 

 dinary effects of colour were produced. All the 

 way up in the morning the snow wreaths wrought 

 by the wind made marvelous pictures of magic as 

 they swept up the hillsides, and Emerson s sea, 

 &quot; carving the coastwise mountain into caves,&quot; was 

 fellowed with this riot of the drifting snow. And 

 here and again in some curious hollow in the hills 

 one beheld a miniature in delicate gray and white 

 not black and white, there is no black in Na 

 ture of the light flames that hover over the crater 

 of such a volcano as Kilauea. But now, suddenly, 

 as the edge of a hill was turned, the rays of the 

 descending sun swept over the crest of a pasture, 

 and all the gray-white snow was turned to rose 

 and glowed with the exquisite beauty of that pure 

 colour, for some minutes, until, the sun declining, 

 it was shot through by a golden glow that empur 

 pled it, all as if to contradict and destroy the 

 power of the tempest. It was a transfiguration 

 wrought by the elements in evidence of the po 

 tential glory of winter. 



Later there was a lull in the storms, and the 

 fogs came and crusted the trees and the shrubs 



