206 THE JONATHAN PAPERS 



it can know what a New England shore marsh 

 can be in winter under a golden sky. 



Winter does some things for us that sum 

 mer cannot do. Summer gives us everything 

 all at once color, fragrance, line, sound 

 in an overwhelming exuberance of riches. 

 And it is good. But winter Ah, winter is 

 an artist, winter has reserves; he selects, he 

 emphasizes, he interprets. Winter says, &quot; I will 

 give you nothing to-day but brown and white, 

 but I will glorify these until you shall wonder 

 that there can be any beauty except thus.&quot; 

 And again winter says: &quot;Did you think the 

 world was brown and white? Lo, it is blue 

 and rose and silver nothing else!&quot; And we 

 look, and it is so. On that other evening, in 

 the fog, the world had been all gray black- 

 gray and pale gray and silver gray. On this 

 evening winter said: &quot;Gray? Not at all. You 

 shall have brown and gold. Behold and mar 

 vel!&quot; 



I marveled. There was a sweep of golden 

 marsh, under a gold sky, and at its borders 

 low lines of trees etched in rich brown masses, 

 and my sentinel cedars standing singly or by 

 twos and threes cedars in their winter 



