THE END OF WINTER 39 



On the sedges the snow is in fleeces; the light strands of 

 clematis are without motion, and have gathered it in 

 clots. One thrush sings, but cannot long endure the 

 sound of his unchallenged note; the sparrows chirrup in 

 the ricks; the blackbird is waiting for the end of that low 

 tingling noise of the snow falling straight in windless air. 



At mid-day the snow is finer and almost rain, and it 

 begins to pour down from its hives among the branches 

 in short showers or in heavy hovering lumps. The leaves 

 of ivy and holly are gradually exposed in all their gloomy 

 polish, and out bursts the purple of the ash buds and the 

 yellow of new foliage. The beech stems seem in their 

 wetness to be made of a dark agate. Out from their tops 

 blow rags of mist, and not far above them clouds like old 

 spiders' webs go rapidly by. 



The snow falls again and the voices of the little summer 

 birds are buried in the silence of the flakes that whirl this 

 way and that aimlessly, rising and falling and crossing 

 or darting horizontally, making the trees sway wearily 

 and their light tops toss and their numbers roar continu- 

 ally in the legions of the wind that whine and moan and 

 shiiek their hearts out in the solitary house roofs and doors 

 and round about. The silence of snow co-exists with 

 this roar. One wren pierces it with a needle of song and 

 is gone. The earth and sky are drowning in night and 

 snow. 



