6 WINTER SUNSHINE 



way. The sunbeams are welcome now. They seem 

 like pure electricity, — like friendly and recuperating 

 lightning. Are we led to think electricity abounds 

 only in summer when we see in the storm-clouds, as 

 it were, the veins and ore-beds of it ? I imagine it 

 is equally abundant in winter, and more equable 

 and better tempered. Who ever breasted a snow- 

 storm without being excited and exhilarated, as if 

 this meteor had come charged with latent auroras of 

 the North, as doubtless it has! It is like being 

 pelted with sparks from a battery. Behold the 

 frostwork on the pane, — the wild, fantastic lim- 

 nings and etchings ! can there be any doubt but this 

 subtle agent has been here 1 Where is it not ? It 

 is the life of the crystaf, the architect of the flake, 

 the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This 

 crisp winter air is full of it. When I come in at 

 night after an aU-day tramp I am charged like a 

 Leyden jar; my hair crackles and snaps beneath the 

 comb like a cat's back, and a strange, new glow 

 diffuses itself through my system. 



It is a spur that one feels at this season more 

 than at any other. How nimbly you step forth! 

 The woods roar, the waters shine, and the hills 

 look invitingly near. You do not miss the flowers 

 and the songsters, or wish the trees or the fields any 

 different, or the heavens 3,ny nearer. Every object 

 pleases. A rail fence, running athwart the hills, 

 now in sunshine and now in shadow, — how the eye 

 lingers upon it ! Or the straight, light-gray trunks 

 of the trees, where the woods have recently been 



