THROUGH THE CHANGING YEAR 131 



which that of any other time of the year at 

 least cannot exceed. 



In the town the beauty of the snow is short- 

 lived ; almost as soon as it has fallen it becomes 

 dirty, and we are glad for other reasons than 

 those of mere physical comfort when it is 

 gone. It is not so in the country. There the 

 snow comes too seldom, and is too quickly 

 gone. We are ready to bear discomfort for 

 the sake of the beauty. Trampled and wheel- 

 marked it turns grey only, not black. The 

 trees look as if they were covered with white 

 leafage, warmer or colder in hue with the 

 varying light and colour in the sky, and we 

 know not whether in sunlight or in moonlight 

 they look the more beautiful. 



More beautiful even than the snow is the 

 hoar-frost, when the brown earth and the 

 russet-hued grasses and the leaves of the 

 evergreens are softly greyed, and the branches 

 and smallest twigs of the trees are all picked 

 out in silver that shines through the sunlit 

 haze, which, growing thinner overhead, lets 

 in the full blue of the sky to enrich the colour- 

 harmony. So beautiful is the scene that we 

 almost sigh over its evanescence, and then 



