In the pine woods the wind was less violent, but 

 the passing snow seemed like vibrating white lines 

 rather than flakes. As I stood in the pines and 

 looked northeast, every tree was black against a 

 distance of on-coming white rage. As I looked 

 southwest every tree was white, finely outlined 

 in black, against a retreating mass of colorless 

 motion. If I looked southeast the trees were 

 black and white, and if northwest they were white 

 and black, and whichever way I looked the air was 

 surging on, laden with the bewildered and bewil- 

 dering snow. 



BOLLES : Land of the Lingering Snow. 



The woods, which frost and November winds 

 stripped of their leafy thatch, are roofed again, now 

 with an arabesque of alabaster more delicate than 

 the green canopy that summer unfolded, and all 

 the floor is set in noiseless pavement, traced with 

 a shifting pattern of blue shadows. In these silent 

 aisles the echoes are smothered at their birth. 

 . . . The sound of the axe-stroke flies no farther 

 than the pungent fragrance of the smoke that 

 drifts in a blue haze from the chopper's fire. The 

 report of the gun awakes no answering report, 

 and each mellow note of the hound comes separate 

 to the ear, with no jangle of reverberations. 



ROBINSON: In New England Fields and Woods. 



