WHEN THE SNOW CAME 



cries as they touch leaf or twig. Tc the 

 pines that held up soft arms of welcome 

 and clasp them close and will not let them 

 go away though each bough is weighted 

 down, they whisper a soft little cooing 

 word that is surely " love " in any lan- 

 guage. No wonder it is warm under 

 pine boughs in a snow-storm. The great 

 trees glow with the happiness of it and 

 the radiance of their delight filters down 

 to you as you stand beneath. The flakes 

 seem to love the bare, smooth twigs of 

 the hard-wood maples less, they give 

 them just a pat and a gentle word of 

 greeting as they go by, and they touch 

 the birches almost flippantly. Among 

 the fine pointed tridents of the pasture 

 cedars, however, they linger somewhat 

 as they do among the pines, though their 

 song here is of jovial friendship only, 

 with even something waggish about it. 



