A GOOD WORD FOR WINTER. 47 



to fancy that Shakespeare served his apprenticeship at 

 this trade, and owed to it that most pathetic of despair* 

 ing wishes, 



" 0, that I were a mockery-king of snow, 

 Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, 

 To melt myself away in water-drops ! " 



1 have spoken of the exquisite curves of snow sur 

 faces. Not less rare are the tints of which they are 

 capable, the faint blue of the hollows, for the shadows 

 in snow are always blue, and the tender rose of higher 

 points, as you stand with your back to the setting sun 

 and look upward across the soft rondure of a hillside. 

 I have seen within a mile of home effects of color as 

 lovely as any iridescence of the Silberhorn after sun- 

 down. Charles II., who never said a foolish thing, gave 

 the English climate the highest praise when he said that 

 it allowed you more hours out of doors than any other, 

 and I think our winter may fairly make the same boast 

 as compared with the rest of the year. Its still morn- 

 ings, with the thermometer near zero, put a premium on 

 walking. There is more sentiment in turf, perhaps, and 

 it is more elastic to the foot ; its silence, too, is wellnigh 

 as congenial with meditation as that of fallen pine-tassel; 

 but for exhilaration there is nothing like a stiff snow- 

 crust that creaks like a cricket at every step, and com' 

 municates its own sparkle to the senses. The air you 

 drink isfrappe, all its grosser particles precipitated, and 

 the dregs of your blood with them. A purer current 

 mounts to the brain, courses sparkling through it, and 

 rinses it thoroughly of all dejected stuff. There is 

 nothing left to breed an exhalation of ill-humor or 

 despondency. They say that this rarefied atmosphere 

 has lessened the capacity of our lungs. Be it so. Quart- 

 pots are for muddier liquor than nectar. To me, the 

 city in winter is infinitely dreary, the sharp street- 



