sense, and is more acceptable at times than any 

 music, is itself the most heavenly music. 



Far across the valley the steam of a passing 

 locomotive rises slowly, and then, like the opening 

 of a flower, unfolds in snow-white voluptuous 

 petals and remains as if carved in the still air. A 

 shaft of light reaches the eye from a distant pool 

 of molten silver at the base of purple hills. All 

 around are little sparkling lights of icicles, flashing 

 their pure rays in the sun. It is the magic water, 

 the protean thing so full of light, laughter and 

 music. Once it was laughter; now in the silence 

 it is light. 



All at once the pond is alive with skaters, its 

 solitary aspeft transformed by this merry invasion. 

 Boys cutting figure eights suggest whirligigs. 

 Myriad black figures, clear cut in the pale light, 

 move in and out with undulating rhythm, as on a 

 surface of polished steel. The pond, now more 

 companionable than ever, becomes a playground, 

 and we never so much as reflect upon the strange- 

 ness of it. Something there is in this unbending 

 on the part of Nature which puts us in a good 

 humor, for certainly people are never more good- 

 natured than on the ice. Their habitual stiffness 



