THE COHORTS OF THE FROST 31 



the evergreens. Such a storm is the winter analogy of 

 the summer shower which dusks the landscape with a 

 dun, ashen cloud, but leaves a hole of blue sky hi the 

 west and plays on far mountains here and there a tur- 

 quoise searchlight. From one quarter of the heavens 

 the white vapour drives down upon us out of colourless 

 space, but in the opposite quarter a mother-of-pearl sky 

 gleams faintly through the mist, the mountain wall be- 

 neath it is like blue and green watered silk seen through 

 a white veil, and the fir trees are emerald. Such a 

 storm passes quickly. We know it is not "fixin* for a 

 blizzard," as the saying goes. But while it lasts it has 

 something of the iridescent yet illusive colour of a tone- 

 poem by Debussy. 



How lovely, in its soft, delicate shades, is the whiter 

 landscape by the river bank, where the gray and coffee- 

 tan of a mottled old sycamore leans out over the dark 

 ice or the black streaks of open water, while beneath 

 its bare limbs, over the snowy fields, we see the blue 

 dome of a mountain! The snow builds exquisite cor- 

 nices over the river bank, and the dead weed stalks rise 

 above them with a delicate, stiff grace. Every line 

 the snow cornices, the edge of open water, the bare 

 limbs of the tree, the mountain dome is a fluid curve, 

 and every colour is a tint, suffusing the black and white 

 ground plan. There is a subtler technique in the winter 

 landscape. 



In the country, the old age of the snow is dignified 



