WINTER 43 



warble of a bird was heard across the roofs. 

 (Pity me that I don't know what kind of 

 a bird it was!) In mid- January, after a 

 longish spell of cold, I have found fresh 

 leaves of buttercup and bellis and dande- 

 lion under the mulch. 



After heavy winter rains, followed by a 

 quick freeze, the puddles crust over with 

 ice, and the water, soaking into the earth, 

 partially evaporating, too, perhaps, 

 leaves this ice a mere shell over nothing. 

 Where the freezing has been irregular be- 

 cause of wind, spiky ridges a foot and 

 more in length true crystals, doubtless 

 may be traced in the ice like Cuphic sym- 

 bols on a rock. And I wonder if we have 

 got nothing out of ice and drifts and icicles 

 for our arts in all these years. No Gothic 

 pendents, think you ? No roofs, and eaves, 

 and pediments ? No tessellations ? No 

 mural ornaments ? Art has never touched 

 the delicacy of the frost-ferns on the win- 

 dow, nor reached the splendor of the Jung- 

 frau's silver dome ; but out of these things 

 beauty may have grown into stone with- 

 out even conscious effort by the architect. 



