A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



of their coming. There is no uproar, no 

 clashing of arms, no blowing of wind trum- 

 pets. These soft, feathery, exquisite crys- 

 tals are formed as if in the silence and pri- 

 vacy of the inner cloud-chambers. Rude 

 winds would break the spell and mar the 

 process. The clouds are smoother, and 

 slower in their movements, with less defi- 

 nite outlines than those which bring rain. 

 In fact, everything is prophetic of the gen- 

 tle and noiseless meteor that is approaching, 

 and of the stillness that is to succeed it, 

 when " all the batteries of sound are spiked," 

 as Lowell says, and " we see the movements 

 of life as a deaf man sees it, a mere 

 wraith of the clamorous existence that in- 

 flicts itself on our ears when the ground is 

 bare." After the storm is fairly launched 

 the winds not infrequently awake, and, see- 

 ing their opportunity, pipe the flakes a lively 

 dance. I am speaking now of the typical, 

 full-born midwinter storm that comes to us 

 from the North or N. N. E., and that piles 

 the landscape knee-deep with snow. Such 

 a storm once came to us the last day of 

 January, the master-storm of the winter. 

 Previous to that date, we had had but light 

 snow. The spruces had been able to catch 



