IN THE CATSKILLS 



return of nature, after such a career of splendor and 

 prodigality, to habits so simple and austere, is not 

 lost either upon the head or the heart. It is the 

 philosopher coming back from the banquet and the 

 wine to a cup of water and a crust of bread. 



And then this beautiful masquerade of the ele- 

 ments, the novel disguises our nearest friends put 

 on! Here is another rain and another dew, water 

 that will not flow, nor spill, nor receive the taint of 

 an unclean vessel. And if we see truly, the same 

 old beneficence and willingness to serve lurk be- 

 neath all. 



Look up at the miracle of the falling snow, 

 the air a dizzy maze of whirling, eddying flakes, 

 noiselessly transforming the world, the exquisite 

 crystals dropping in ditch and gutter, and disguising 

 in the same suit of spotless livery all objects upon 

 which they fall. How novel and fine the first drifts ! 

 The old, dilapidated fence is suddenly set off with 

 the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and fluted after 

 an unheard-of fashion! Looking down a long line 

 of decrepit stone wall, in the trimming of which the 

 wind had fairly run riot, I saw, as for the first time, 

 what a severe yet master artist old Winter is. Ah, a 

 severe artist! How stern the woods look, dark and 

 cold and as rigid against the horizon as iron ! 



All life and action upon the snow have an added 

 emphasis and significance. Every expression is 

 underscored. Summer has few finer pictures than 

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