A WINTER MORNING. 12$ 



three miles wide, for its centre, and its upper 

 limit will be somewhere near where I am now 

 writing, on the shores of Lake Mohegan. 



I look upon it this lovely February morning 

 from my window, its surface covered with a 

 sparkling field of new-fallen snow, the pines 

 and firs surrounding it bending under the white 

 plumage so beautifully contrasting with their 

 green, the oaks and maples with frosted barks 

 and silver icicles glittering in the sunlight. 

 This is winter, glorious winter. It quickens 

 the pulse of age and brings back the memories 

 of youth, the jingling bells, the rosy cheeks, the 

 ringing laughter of the sleigh-ride of the olden 

 time, the music of the gliding skates— all the 

 wholesome, life-giving exercise in its pure, 

 bracing air ; and still to me it is more joyous 

 than the gentle zephyrs and balmy airs, green 

 landscapes and tropical verdure of the South, 

 that boasts of its sunny clime, but where 

 never sun shone with a splendor like this of 

 to-day. 



The story of ''The Pioneers" opens with 

 a charming winter scene, depicted with the 

 graphic pencil of nature that Cooper always 

 held in his hand. The keen atmosphere makes 

 our blood tingle, and we luxuriate before the 



