THE SNOW-WALKERS. 55 



stack upon the clean snow, — the movement, the sharp- 

 ly-defined figures, the great green flakes of hay, the 

 long file of patient cows, — the advance just arriving 

 and pressing eagerly for the choicest morsels, — and 

 the bounty and providence it suggests. Or the chopper 

 in the woods — the prostrate tree, the white new chips 

 scattered about, his easy triumph over the cold, coat 

 hanging to a limb, and the clear, sharp ring of his axe. 

 The woods are rigid and tense, keyed up by the frost, 

 and resound like a stringed instrument. Or the road- 

 breakers, sallying forth with oxen and sleds in the still, 

 white world, the day after the storm, to restore the lost 

 track and demolish the beleaguering drifts. 



All sounds are sharper in winter ; the air transmits 

 better. At night I hear more distinctly the steady roar 

 of the North Mountain. In summer it is a sort of 

 complacent purr, as the breezes stroke down its sides ; 

 but in winter always the same low, sullen growl. 



A severe artist ! No longer the canvas and the 

 pigments, but the marble and the chisel. When the 

 nights are calm and the moon full, I go out to gaze 

 upon the wonderful purity of the moonlight and the 

 snow. The air is full of latent fire, and the cold warms 

 me — after a different fashion from that of the kitchen 

 stove. The world lies about me in a " trance of snow." 

 The clouds are pearly and iridescent, and seem the 

 farthest possible remove from the condition of a storm, 

 — the ghosts of clouds, the indwelling beauty freed 

 from all dross. I see the hills, bulging with great 



