Winter.
SLOWLY, thickly, fastly, fall the snow flakes,—like
the seasons upon the life of man. At the first,
they lose themselves in the brown mat of herbage, or
gently melt, as they fall upon the broad stepping stone
at the door. But as hour after hour passes, the
feathery flakes stretch their white cloak plainly on the
meadow, and chilling the doorstep with their multitude,
cover it with a mat of pearl.
The dried grass tips pierce the mantle of white, like
so many serried spears; but as the storm goes softly
on, they sink one by one to their snowy tomb; and
presently show nothing of all their army, save one or
two straggling banners of blackened and shrunken
daisies.
Across the wide meadow that stretches from my
window, I can see nothing of those hills which were so
green in summer: between me and them, lie only the
soft, slow moving masses, filling the air with whiteness.
I catch only a glimpse of one gaunt, and bare-armed
oak, looming through the feathery multitude, like a tall
ship's spars breaking through fog.
The roof of the barn is covered; and the leaking
eaves show dark stains of water, that trickle down the
weather-beaten boards. The pear-trees that wore such
weight of greenness in the leafy June, now stretch their
bare arms to the snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny
bough, a narrow burden of winter.
The old house dog marches stately through the
strange covering of earth, and seems to ponder on the
welcome he will show,—and shakes the flakes from his
long ears, and with a vain snap at a floating feather, he
stalks again to his dry covert in the shed. The lambs
that belonged to the meadow flock, with their feeding
ground all covered, seem to wonder at their losses; but
take courage from the quiet air of the veteran sheep,
and gambol after them, as they move sedately toward
the shelter of the barn.
The cat, driven from the kitchen door, beats a coy
retreat, with long reaches of her foot, upon the yielding
surface. The matronly hens saunter out, at a little
lifting of the storm; and eye curiously, with heads
half turned, their sinking steps; and then fall back with
a quiet cluck of satisfaction, to the wholesome gravel by
the stable door.
By and by, the snow flakes pile more leisurely: they
grow large and scattered, and come more slowly than
before. The hills that were brown, heave into sight—
great, rounded billows of white. The gray woods
look shrunken to half their height, and stand waving
in the storm. The wind freshens, and scatters the
light flakes that crown the burden of the snow; and
as the day droops, a clear, bright sky of steel color,
cleaves the land, and clouds, and sends down a chilling
wind to bank the walls, and to freeze the storm. The
moon rises full and round, and plays with a joyous
chill, over the glistening raiment of the land.
I pile my fire with the clean cleft hickory; and musing
over some sweet story of the olden time, I wander
into a rich realm of thought, until my eyes grow dim,
and dreaming of battle and of prince, I fall to sleep in
my old farm chamber.
At morning, I find my dreams all written on the
window, in crystals of fairy shape. The cattle, one by
one, with ears frost-tipped, and with frosted noses, wend
their way to the watering-place in the meadow. One
by one they drink, and crop at the stunted herbage,
which the warm spring keeps green and bare.
A hound bays in the distance; the smoke of cottages
rises straight toward Heaven; a lazy jingle of
sleigh-bells wakens the quiet of the high-road; and
upon the hills, the leafless woods stand low, like
crouching armies, with guns and spears in rest; and
among them, the scattered spiral pines rise like bannermen,
uttering with their thousand tongues of green,
the proud war-cry—`God is with us!'
But, the sky of winter is as capricious as the sky of
spring—even as the old wander in thought, like the
vagaries of a boy.
Before noon, the heavens are mantled with a leaden
gray; the eaves that leaked in the glow of the sun,
now tell their tale of morning's warmth, in crystal
ranks of icicles. The cattle seek their shelter; the
few, lingering leaves of the white oaks, rustle dismally;
the pines breathe sighs of mourning. As the night
darkens, and deepens the storm, the house dog bays;
the children crouch in the wide chimney corners; the
sleety rain comes in sharp gusts. And, as I sit by the
light leaping blaze in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops
beat upon my window, like the tappings of an
Old Man's cane.
