A Winter Night • 217 



the hills — white, too, and clear against the sky. The 

 plain is silent, and nothing that can be seen moves 

 upon its surface. 



On the verge of the wood which occupies the 

 sloping ground there stands a great oak tree, and 

 down one side of its trunk is a narrow white streak of 

 snow. Leaning against the oak and looking upwards, 

 every branch and twig is visible, lit up by the moon. 

 Overhead the stars are dimmed, but they shine more 

 brightly yonder above the hills. Such leaves as have 

 not }et fallen hang motionless : those that are lying 

 on the ground are covered by the snow, and thus 

 held fast from rustling even were the wind to blow. 

 But there is not the least breath — a great frost is 

 always quiet, profoundly quiet — and the silence is un- 

 disturbed even by the fall of a leaf. The frost that kills 

 them holds the leaves till it melts, and then they drop. 



The tall ash poles behind in the wood stand stark 

 and straight, pointing upwards, and it is possible to- 

 see for some distance between them. No lesser bats 

 flit to and fro outside the fence under the branches ;. 

 no larger ones pass above the tops of the trees. 

 There seems, indeed, a total absence of life. The 

 pheasants are at roost in the warmer covers ; and 

 the woodpigeons are also perched — some in the 

 detached oaks of the hedgerows, particularly those 



