THE WINTER 

 WOODS 



The first snow-storm of the season never becomes 

 an old story. It retains its charm indefinitely, to 

 all original minds at least, and to such as have 

 cherished any degree of simplicity. Here is a 

 mimic invasion of an elemental beauty which 

 conquers us by reason of its very gentleness. We 

 are soothed and beguiled into submission. Tem- 

 pestuous winds call forth our resistance; we front 

 them with set teeth. But who can resist the silent 

 snow descending as if to lay the world under a 

 soft enchantment? The woods are renewed and 

 reclothed in virgin purity. It is as if old scores 

 were wiped out and the world were again a spot- 

 less thing. 



What can be more companionable than the 

 falling snow? Its touch is so caressing, its advent 

 so silent in the open, its voice so pleasing as it sifts 

 through the pine-needles. The first solitary flakes 

 approach with the gentle effedt of preparing one 

 for the miracle to ensue. A calm settles over all, 



'53 



