THE SNOW-WALKERS. 55 



sharply-defined figures, the great green flakes of hay, 

 the long file of patient cows, the advance just ar- 

 riving and pressing eagerly for the choicest morsels, 

 and the bounty and providence it suggests. Or the 

 chopper in the woods the prostrate tree, the white 

 new chips scattered about, his easy triumph over the 

 cold, coat hanging to a limb, and the clear, sharp ring 

 of his axe. The woods are rigid and tense, keyed 

 up by the frost, and resound like a stringed instru- 

 ment. Or the road-breakers, sallying forth with oxen 

 and sleds in the still, white world, the day after the 

 storm, to restore the lost track and demolish the be- 

 leaguering drifts. 



All sounds are sharper in winter ; the air transmits 

 better. At night I hear more distinctly the steady 

 roar of the North Mountain. In summer it is a sort 

 of complacent purr, as the breezes stroke down its 

 sides ; but in winter always the same low, sullen 

 growl. 



A severe artist ! No longer the canvas and the 

 pigments, but the marble and the chisel. When the 

 nights are calm and the moon full, I go out to gaze 

 upon the wonderful purity of the moonlight and the 

 snow. The air is full of latent fire, and the cold 

 warms me after a different fashion from that of the 

 kitchen stove. The world lies about me in a " trance 

 of snow." The clouds are pearly and iridescent, and 

 seem the farthest possible remove from the condition 

 of a storm, the ghosts of clouds, the indwelling 

 beauty freed from all dross. I see the hills, bulging 



