VI. 



A CHAPTER ON GREEN-HOUSES. 



, December, 1848. 



DECEMBER, here in the north, is certainly a cold month. Yes, 

 one does not look for primroses under the hedges, nor gather 

 violets in the valleys, often, at this season. One must be content to 

 enjoy a bright sty over head, and a frosty walk under foot ; one 

 must find pleasure in the anatomy of trees, and the grand outline of 

 hills and mountains half covered with snow. And Ihen, to be sure, 

 there are the evergreens. What a pleasant thing it is to see how 

 bravely they stand their ground, and bid defiance even to zero ; 

 especially those two fine old veterans, the Hemlock and the White 

 Pine. They, indeed, smile defiance at all the attacks of the Ice 

 King. It is not easy to make a winter landscape dull or gloomy 

 where they stand, ready as they are at all times with such a sturdy 

 look of wholesome content in every bough. 



That must be an insipid climate, depend upon it, where there is 

 " summer aU the year round." In an ideal point of view, — that is, 

 for angels and "beatitudes" — it is, nay, it must be, quite perfect. 

 Their sensations never wear out. But to us, poor mortals, com- 

 pounded as we are of such a moiety of clay, and alas, too many of 

 us full of inconstancy, — always demanding variety — always looking 

 for a change — wearying, as the angels do not, of things which ought 

 to satisfy any reasonable creature for ever ; no, even perpetual sum- 

 mer will not do for us. Winter, keen and frosty winter, comes to 

 brace up our languid nerves. It acts like a long night's sleep, after 



