256 BIRD-LAND ECHOES. 



was not as he had seen it in his day. No, of 

 course not. No octogenarian admits that the world 

 is ever now as he has known it. Perhaps it is 

 not ; but, even if born too late, I had had a pleasant 

 walk. 



With what silent fingers does the frost build up 

 its crystal mazes ! The clear sky, the unveiled moon, 

 the still air, all gave their aid, and slowly through 

 the lone hours of the night the dainty frost-work 

 was left upon every twig in the woods, every blade 

 and seed-pod in the meadows, every weed and bush 

 in the upland fields. Not a vine-clad fence was 

 neglected : all the landscape was decked with jewels 

 awaiting the sunrise of that gladdest of all days, 

 Christmas. The light that had for hours made the 

 sleeping earth so beautiful now took to itself a rosy 

 tint. The gray east grew white as the snow, and 

 the frost-crystals in their beauty shone with a defiant 

 glow, as if they challenged the approach of day, 

 and then, as the sun rose, glittered, as if in anger, 

 red as rubies ; then cast a summer-warm green 

 light, and at last, struggling still not to be excelled, 

 sparkled as diamonds. Never had Christmas seen 

 a more glorious sunrise. The earth was reclothed, 

 and, as I passed into the woods, I did not miss the 

 leaves. 



The trees bore other fruit, and the handiwork of 

 the night demands attention before the envious day 

 destroys it. As eager children in-doors were strip- 

 ping their trees, so soon would the sunlight tear 

 from every twig its dainty, unsubstantial jewels. It 



