60 WINTER 



The air was crisper; the snow began to crackle 

 under foot ; the twigs creaked and rattled as I brushed 

 along; a brown beech leaf wavered down and skated 

 with a thin scratch over the crust ; and pure as the 

 snow-wrapped crystal world, and sweet as the soft 

 gray twilight, came the call of a quail. 



These were not the voices, colors, odors, and forms 

 of summer. The very face of things had changed ; 

 all had been reduced, made plain, simple, single, pure ! 

 There was less for the senses, but how much keener 

 now their joy ! The wide landscape, the frosty air, 

 the tinkle of tiny icicles, and, out of the quiet of the 

 falling twilight, the voice of the quail ! 



There is no day but is beautiful in the woods ; 

 and none more beautiful than one like this Christmas 

 Day warm, and still, and wrapped to the round 

 red berries of the holly in the magic of the snow. 



