DECEMBER 



25 



It is surprising what things the snow betrays. 

 I had not seen a meadow-mouse all summer, but 

 no sooner does the snow come and spread its man- 

 tle over the earth than it is printed with the 

 tracks of countless mice and larger animals. I see 

 where the mouse has dived into a little hole in 

 the snow not larger than my thumb by the side 

 of a weed, and a yard farther reappeared, and so 

 on alternately above and beneath. A snug life 

 it lives. The crows come nearer to the houses, 

 alight on trees by the roadside, apparently being 

 put to it for food, 



THOREAU: Winter. 



26 



The snow is dazzling, the sky far and brightly 

 blue, with a radiant mellow haze about the sun, 

 the air most pure and living, and the trodden path 

 rings with a crisp, metallic echo to the foot. The 

 oxen, in exceeding leisure, sway their gross bulk 

 in balanced step, and drag the heavy sled, whose 

 bent wooden runners squeak in answering cadence. 

 They look at you with great, serious eyes, and puff 

 out long eddies of frosty breath. Their nostrils 

 are fringed beneath with rime, and so are their 

 dewlaps and their knees from the moist warmth of 



the stables. 



WHITING: The Saunterer. 



