WINTER 



WINTER, in the Pickwickian sense, is rare in England. 

 Except that the days grow short, that the solstice falls and 

 the sun seems to stop still, giving five days of equal length 

 on either side of Christmas, we should hardly be aware of 

 winter's arrival. We may pick snowdrops, primroses, and 

 even outdoor strawberries on Christmas Day. We may hear 

 the thrushes sing. We may ride to hounds on either side of 

 Christmas Day. Snow, very rare in November, is still rare in 

 December, and often the frosts are much milder than those 

 which brought down the ash leaves in October. The ' old- 

 fashioned winter ' seems to have disappeared as completely 

 as ' the snows of yester year/ Now and again, of course, we 

 have had great frosts round the week of shortest days. In 

 1860, a sudden frost after open weather bridged the rivers. 

 The thermometer was below zero, and there was skating on 

 the Ouse on Christmas Day. Those born since then have 

 enjoyed a longer period of skating in March than in 

 December, and some of the most serious drifts have been 

 in Easter week. 



The impression left from many Christmas Day walks upon 

 the memory of a dweller in the southern half of England, 

 is a picture of green fields. The green grass leads to a path 

 across the ploughs, where on either side the blades of wheat 

 or winter oats gleam almost transparent in the sun. At the 



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