146 NEW ENGLAND WINTER. 



desolation. The hepatica is not more beau- 

 tiful than many another flower, but it takes 

 us when we are hungry for the sight of a 

 blossom. What can we do ? When it 

 peeps out of its bed of withered leaves, puts 

 off its furs, and opens to the sunlight its 

 little purple cup, we have no choice but to 

 love it as we cannot love the handsomer 

 and more fragrant hosts that follow in its 

 train. 



And as winter over and gone sets in 

 brighter relief the warmth and resurrection 

 of springtime, so does the shadow of its 

 approach lend a real if somewhat indefin- 

 able attractiveness to the fall months. The 

 blooming of the late flowers, the ripening 

 of leaf and fruit, the frosty air, the flocking 

 of birds, all the thousand signs of the au- 

 tumnal season take on a kind of pathetic 

 and solemn interest, as being but prelusive 

 to the whiteness and deadness so soon to 

 cover the earth. Indeed, if there were no 

 winter, there could be neither spring nor 

 autumn ; nay, nor any summer. Leave out 

 the snow and ice, and the whole round year 

 would be metamorphosed; or, rather, the 

 year itself would pass away, and nothing be 

 left but time. 



