SNOW 175 
der sprays, weary of winter’s sameness, have 
made for themselves playthings, — each dan- 
gling a crystal knob of ice, which sways gently 
in the water and gleams ruddy in the sun- 
light. As we approach the foaming cascade, 
the toys become larger and more glittering, 
movable stalactites, which the water tosses 
merrily upon their flexible stems. The torrent 
pours down beneath an enamelled mask of ice, 
wreathed and convoluted like the human brain, 
and sparkling with gorgeous glow. Tremulous 
motions and glimmerings go through the trans- 
lucent veil, as if it throbbed with the throbbing 
wave beneath. It holds in its mazes stray bits 
of color, — scarlet berries, evergreen sprigs, blue 
raspberry stems, and sprays of yellow willow ; 
glittering necklaces and wreaths and tiaras of 
brilliant ice-work cling and trail around its 
edges, and no regal palace shines with such 
carcanets of jewels as this winter ball-room of 
the dancing drops. 
Above, the brook becomes a smooth black 
canal between two steep white banks; and the 
glassy water seems momentarily stiffening into 
the solider blackness of ice. Here and there 
thin films are already formed over it, and are 
being constantly broken apart by the treacher- 
ous current; a flake a foot square is jerked 
away and goes sliding beneath the slight trans- 
