38 A GOOD WORD FOR WINTER. 



weight. I have sometimes thought that if theologians would 

 remember this in their arguments, and consider that the man 

 may slump through, with no fault of his own, where the boy 

 would have skimmed the surface in safety, it would be better 

 for all parties. However, when you do get a crust that will 

 bear, and know any brooklet that runs down a hill-side, be 

 sure to go and take a look at him, especially if your crust is 

 due, as it commonly is, to a cold snap following eagerly on 

 a thaw. You will never find him so cheerful. As he shrank 

 away after the last thaw, he built for himself the most ex 

 quisite caverns of ice to run through, if not measureless to 

 man like those of Alph, the sacred river, yet perhaps more 

 pleasing for their narrowness than those for their grandeur. 

 What a cunning silversmith is Frost ! The rarest workman 

 ship of Delhi or Genoa copies him but clumsily, -as if the 

 fingers of all other artists were thumbs. Fernwork and lace- 

 work and filagree in endless variety, and under it all the 

 water tinkles like a distant guitar, or drums like a tambour 

 ine, or gurgles like the Tokay of an anchorite s dream. Be 

 yond doubt there is a fairy procession marching along those 

 frail arcades and translucent corridors. 



Their oaten pipes blow wondrous shrill, 

 The hemlock small blow clear. 



And hark ! is that the ringing of Titania s bridle, or the bells 

 of the wee, wee hawk that sits on Oberon s wrist ? This 

 wonder of Frost s handiwork may be had every winter, but 

 he can do better than this, though I have seen it but once 

 in my life. There had been a thaw without wind or rain, 

 making the air fat with gray vapour. Towards sundown 

 came that chill, the avant-courier of a northwesterly gale. 

 Then, though there was no perceptible current in the atmo 

 sphere, the fog began to attach itself in frosty roots and fila 

 ments to the southern side of every twig and grass-stem. 

 The very posts had poems traced upon them by this dumb 

 minstrel. Wherever the moist seeds found lodgment grew 

 an inch-deep moss fine as cobweb, a slender coral-reef, argen 

 tine, delicate, as of some silent sea in the moon, such as 

 Agassiz dredges when he dreams. The frost, too, can wield 

 a delicate graver, and in fancy leaves Piranesi far behind. 

 He covers your window-pane with Alpine etchings, as if in 

 memory of that sanctuary where he finds shelter even in 

 midsummer. 



