Nov. 30, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
685 
The Brentwood Papers 
W E stood ona winter evening high on a 
snow-bemantled hill and gazed down 
into the valley where the last glamor¬ 
ous rays of the sunset were trailing their ner¬ 
vous fingers to and fro as if to find a resting 
place on the icy breast of the earth. All was 
still; so very still and awe-inspiring that we, 
mere human beings of flesh and blood, seemed 
wholly out-of-place in this kingdom of sound¬ 
less waste and tranquilness. The sky in the 
west had undergone an ethereal transformation, 
for gradually it became bathed in showers of 
gold of the purest calm. Great banks of laven¬ 
der that mellowed gradually away into bronze 
amid fantastic shapes of all sorts appeared, until 
one wondered with bated breath what next would 
enhance the scene portrayed on the face of the 
waning day. 
The brightness rested on our features; we 
seemed ready to receive a divine blessing, and 
we felt with that keen anticipation of the true 
nature lover brought nearer the magic throne of 
the beauteous queen. The stillness was intense, 
save for now and then afar off a farm dog 
barked, or children’s voices, silvery-pitched, winged 
across the frosted fields, or the sighing of the 
breeze through the reeds at the roadside. But 
even these partook of the universal quietude, 
and even to name them were to name a sound¬ 
less sound, so drowsy with sleep did they seem. 
The sun, a disk of silent flame, drooped slowly 
down ; in fact, it seemed to hang suspended over 
the horizon, and then crept down into the 
mothering arms of the night, and the clouds 
closed softly over the form. The curtain un¬ 
furled and was daintily drawn; the drama of 
the day was at a close, and the time had come 
to leave, with that clinging memory stamped 
irrevocably on the mind. The colors faded and 
twilight dimmed to silent darkness. The stars, 
like so many billion tapers, were trimmed, and 
each in its place shed forth a wane light upon 
the world below. In the valley the cottage lamps 
suddenly streamed yellow through the windows 
and everything seemed safe and contented from 
the invigorating cold without. I do not think 
man can express the beauty, the awful sublime 
beauty of winter, the terrible tenacity of his 
mood, the unrelenting fierceness of his vow to 
wreak havoc on the spoils of summer, the mild¬ 
ness and the coldness and the change from anger 
to beautiful serenity. 
It is impossible for us to know all there is 
in this season or any season, and we cannot ex¬ 
press it in mere words, but perhaps feel in some 
distant mystic way. Where are the poets of 
the winter? They are most chance sitting by 
some cheerful hearth stone punning away or 
stealing the eternal bubbles off of a bumper of 
ale, and disclaiming on the delights, when they 
can trace the wraiths of the summer fields in 
the darting snakes of flame in the dying embers; 
when they once more are in the meadow grasses 
that are swaying now up and now down, billow¬ 
ing as the wind creeps across the scene; when 
they once more hear the birds calling from the 
I.—The Glory of Winter 
By ROBERT PAGE LINCOLN 
silence of the woods; when the flowers nod and 
smile up at the mellow heaven’s blue and all is 
warm and sweet on the breast of nature. But 
of the awful grandeur outside they find no voice 
save the mournful inspiration wrought by the 
wind howling around the gables. Yet what vast 
store of good I have derived from my cross 
country walks in the rural districts when the 
snow has been so deep that I have floundered 
SILENT SENTINELS OF WINTER. 
and stumbled, and when the cold has preyed 
upon me with terrible rigor. 
There is some unknown, yet joyful inspira¬ 
tion in it all. The blood throbs warmly through 
the veins and the body feels at its fittest. There 
is always something in winter that catches my 
fancy. Perhaps it is the storm-bound birds 
swaying on the dead weeds in the fields, or 
the moan in the branches of an oak or the over¬ 
cast sky foretelling the oncoming of another 
wealth of that matchless ermine; perhaps it is 
the feathery flakes just beginning to sift through 
the barren boughs, now lifted and now eddying 
downward as though reluctant to so soon give 
up their joyous sailing through the icy atmos¬ 
phere. That fascination I always feel. Espe¬ 
cially is this true when standing in a solitary 
wood hemmed in by the giants of nature. Al¬ 
though alone in human shape, I feel the com¬ 
panionship of the great rugged trees most keen¬ 
ly, and every wind that sways their branches 
has meaning to me who is so closely a lover of 
nature. 
It seems that I have what one would call 
a second mind or a conscience that is quite apart 
from the common place. This mind harbors all 
that is poetic and full of feeling; this mind is 
the dwelling place of every fancy, and from this 
I am able to study nature most readily and feel 
that which others are seemingly so lacking in. 
The changing chords in the breeze—now a lilt¬ 
ing cadence in the summer grasses and now a 
ghost of sorrow in the Weaken winter woods— 
sound with an indefinite thrill the inmost wonder 
of my soul. This being a poet has its wonder¬ 
ful side and its gloomy side, and though some¬ 
how I feel wrapt up in both, the wonderful, the 
awful serenity of life and nature is a powerful 
factor in my dual existence, and has proven the 
conquering victor. The depth of the winter wood 
is a solemn place. The great trees with their 
various sounds, the snow stretching dimly 
shadowed far away, criss-crossed by the squirrel 
trails and those of the birds; the mystery and 
the silence—it is all the make-up of a perfect 
peace, rigid and cold the day may be, and sinis¬ 
ter the mood of the Ice King. A cloudy day 
just before the coming of the snow storm, then 
it is most pleasant to enter the big wood, and 
selecting some sheltered place between some 
towering trees, gather together a goodly supply 
of firewood and build a fire. See, here is a 
fine place under this wealth of dead grape vines 
which, used as a roof, will be perfectly in keep¬ 
ing with my notion. Clear away a spot and roll 
that dead tree in for the back log and build 
your fire on this side. You can now unpocket 
the birch bark we gathered over at the pond, 
and with that for the basis heap on a few twigs 
till the little snake of flame has attained due 
proportion. Then add fuel until all is warm and 
bright and clear. When a possible waning has 
been safeguarded against, one may lean back 
contented, and over a freshly replenished pipe 
drowse away in reminiscence. And this is sure 
to come. There is always that spell of tranquil 
forgetfulness present when, after a long tramp 
through the woods, one ends up by a cheery 
fire. The woods have grown deeper in gloom; 
a veil of mist seems to be hovering over the 
landscape, and the foreboding feel is in the air. 
The stillness of the solitudes is certain. There 
is no sound even of the wind, for it has died 
down, and but the partial turn of a leaf wakens 
a sense of there being life in the atmosphere. 
The crackle of the falling embers and the thin 
trail of smoke arising, the sound of your voices; 
that is all. But soon the snowflakes appear in 
the air, eddying downward through the barren 
branches, and in ten minutes the vision is ob- 
