42 WINTER SUNSHINE 



prodigality, to habits so simple and austere, is not 

 lost either upon the head or the heart. It is the 

 philosopher coming back from the banquet and the 

 wine to a cup of water and a crust of bread. 



And then this beautiful masquerade of the ele- 

 ments, — the novel disguises our nearest friends put 

 on ! Here is another rain and another dew, water 

 that will not flow, nor spill, nor receive the taint of 

 an unclean vessel. And if we see truly, the same 

 old beneficence and willingness to serve lurk be- 

 neath all. 



Look up at the miracle of the falling snow, — 

 the air a dizzy maze of whirling, eddying flakes, 

 noiselessly transforming the world, the exquisite 

 crystals dropping in ditch and gutter, and disguising 

 in the same suit of spotless livery all objects upon 

 which they fall. How novel and fine the first 

 drifts! The old, dilapidated fence is suddenly set 

 off with the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and 

 fluted after an unheard-of fashion ! Looking down 

 a long line of decrepit stone wall, in the trimming 

 of which the wind had fairly run riot, I saw, as for 

 the first time, what a severe yet master artist old 

 Winter is. Ah, a severe artist! How stern the 

 woods look, dark and cold and as rigid against the 

 horizon as iron! 



All life and action upon the snow have an added 

 emphasis and significance. Every expression is un- 

 derscored. Summer has few finer pictures than this 

 winter one of the farmer foddering his cattle from 

 a stack upon the clean snow, — the movement, the 



