look than the riders ; especially the frost bitten 

 gentleman, and the shivering lady with the 

 invisible face, sole passengers of that commodious 

 machine ! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted as she 

 is, one sees from her attitude how miserable she 

 would look uncovered. 



Now. we have reached the trees, — the beautiful 

 trees ! never so beautiful as to-day. Imagine the 

 effect of a straight and regular double avenue of 

 oaks, nearly a mile long, arching over head, and 

 closing into perspective, like the roofs and columns 

 of a cathedral, every tree and branch encrusted 

 with the bright and delicate congelation of hoar- 

 frost, white and pure as snow, delicate and defined 

 as carved ivory. How beautiful it is, how uni- 

 form, how various, how filling, how satiating to 

 the mind — above all, how melancholy ! There is 

 a thrilling awfulness, an intense feeling of simple 

 power in that naked and colorless beauty, which 

 falls on the earth like the thoughts of death — 

 death, pure and glorious and smiling — but still 

 death. Sculpture has always the same effect on 

 my imagination, and painting never. Color is 

 life. 



We are now at the top of this magnificent 

 avenue, and at the top of a steep eminence com- 

 manding a wide view over four counties — a land- 

 scape of snow. A deep lane leads abruptly down 

 the hill ; a mere narrow cart-track, sinking 

 between high banks clothed with fern and furze, 

 and broom, crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, 

 and famous for their summer smell of thyme. 

 How lovely these banks are now — the tall weeds 

 and the gorse fixed and stiffened in the hoar-frost, 

 which fringes round the bright prickly holly, the 

 pendant foliage of the bramble, and the deep 

 orange-leaves of the pollard oak. Oh, this is rime 

 in its loveliest form ! And there is still a berry 

 here and there on the holly, "blushing in its 

 natural coral" through the delicate tracery ; still 

 a stray hip or haw for the birds, who abound 

 always here. The poor birds, how tame they are, 

 how sadly tame ! There is the beautiful and rare 

 crested wren, that shadow of a bird, as White of 

 Selborne calls it, perched in the middle of the 

 hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold bare 

 boughs, seeking, poor pretty thing, for the warmth 

 it will not find. And there, further on, just under 

 the bank by the slender rivulet, which still trickles 

 between its transparent fantastic margin of thin 

 ice, as if it were a thing of life, — there, with a 

 swift, scudding motion, flits, in short low flights, 

 the gorgeous king-fisher, its magnificent plumage 

 of scarlet and blue flashing in the sun like the 

 glories of some tropical bird. He is come for 

 water to this little spring by the hill side, — water 

 which even his long bill and slender head can 

 hardly reach, so nearly do the fantastic forms of 

 those garland-like icy margins meet over the tiny 

 stream beneath. It is rarely that one sees the 

 shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant 

 to see him in the grace and beauty of his natural 

 liberty, the only way to look at a bird. We used, 

 before we lived in a street, to fix a little board 

 outside the parlor-window, and cover it with bread 

 crumbs in the hard weather. It was quite 

 delightful to see the pretty things come and feed — 

 to conquer their shyness, and do away their mis- 

 trust. First came the more social tribes, the 

 robin-redbreast and the wren, cautiously and 



suspiciously picking up a crumb on the wing, 

 with the little keen bright eye fixed on the 

 window : then they would stop for two pecks ; 

 then stay till they were satisfied. The shyer 

 birds, tamed by their example, came next ; and 

 at last one saucy fellow of a blackbird — a sad 

 glutton, he would clear the board in two minutes 

 — used to tap his yellow bill against the window 

 for more. How we loved the fearless confidence 

 of that fine, frank-hearted creature ! And surely 

 he loved us. I wonder the practice is not more 

 general. 



THAW. 



January 28i/i. — We have had rain, and snow, 

 and frost, and rain again : four days of absolute 

 confinement. Now it is a thaw and a flood ; but 

 our light gravelly soil and country boots, and 

 country hardihood, will carry us through. What 

 a dripping, comfortless day it is ! just like the last 

 days of November; no sun, no sky, grey or blue; 

 one low, over-hanging, dark, dismal cloud, like 

 London smoke. Mayflower is out coursing, too. 

 Never mind. Up the hill again ! Walk we must. 

 Oh, what a watery world to look back upon ! 

 Thames, Kennet, Loddon — all overflowed; our 

 famous town, inland once, turned into a sort of 

 Venice. C. Park converted into an island ; and a 

 long range of meadows, from B. to W., one huge, 

 unnatural lake, with trees growing out of it. Oh, 

 what a watery world ! — I will look at it no longer 

 I will walk on. 



The road is alive again. Noise is re-born. 

 Wagons creak, horses splash, carts rattle, and 

 pattens paddle through the dirt with more than 

 their usual clink. The common has its fine old 

 tints of green and brown ; and its old variety of 

 inhabitants — horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and 

 donkeys. The ponds are unfrozen, except when 

 some melancholy piece of melting ice floats 

 sullenly on the water; and cackling geese and 

 gabbling ducks have replaced the sliders and 

 skaters. The avenue is chill and dark, the hedges 

 are dripping, the lanes knee-deep, and all nature 

 is in a state of dissolution and thaw. 



We know " something" about thaw, this 

 year ; but we would much prefer not to go 

 into particulars. The recollection of it 

 sticks to us ! 



Little Ferns for Fanny's Little 

 Friends. With Illustrations by 

 Birket Foster. Nathaniel Cooke. 



That " Fanny Fern " is our sweetheart, is 

 well known to all the world. Our pages are 

 kept wholesome by the outpourings of her 

 gentle spirit, and the minds of our readers 

 are refreshed and purified by her gems of 

 thought. 



This little book, shining in its scarlet coat, 

 inlaid with gold, is an inexhaustible treasury 

 of good things, — profitable to young and 

 old. In the simplest of forms, it brings 

 under our notice everything that can tend to 

 make us good, thoughtful, kind, and bene- 

 volent. It is divided into short chapters,— 

 each on a distinct topic; and is illustrated 

 throughout with very beautiful engravings. 



