Where Town and Country Meet 



No marble floor was ever so inviting to 

 the feet, or as easing and stimulating to the 

 muscles, as a far-stretching expanse of crust 

 under a blue winter sky. It is so crisp and 

 electric under foot, so full of spring and 

 elasticity, so graspable and firm, with just 

 enough friction in its surface to hold the 

 foot from slipping and yet not detain it. 

 Everywhere it undulates and sparkles be 

 fore one, free from all abrupt inequalities, 

 curving over the fences, and sweeping down 

 into deep hollows like a petrified cataract. 

 You may speed along with swinging stride, 

 fearless of stumbling over stumps, bushes, 

 bowlders, over frozen brooks and marshes 

 no longer treacherous, your whole body 

 glowing with exercise, and your soul drink 

 ing in the strange crystalline beauty of the 

 snow-bound world. 



January 21, 1887, was a memorable day 

 in the chronicles of my crust-walks. To 

 begin with, the crust was unusually thick 

 and hard, making it possible to penetrate 

 on its surface deep into the woods, and 

 enabling me to explore familiar haunts that 

 I remembered visiting before only in snow- 

 less tramps. Then the day was perfect 

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