University of Virginia Library

1. I.

The night was intensely cold, but not dismal, for all the hills
and meadows, all the steep roofs of the farm-houses, and the
black roofs of the barns, were white as snow could make them.
The haystacks looked like high, smooth heaps of snow, and the
fences, in their zigzag course across the fields, seemed made of
snow too, and half the trees had their limbs encrusted with the
pure white.

Through the middle of the road, and between banks out of
which it seemed to have been cut, ran a path, hard and blue
and icy, and so narrow that only two horses could move in it
abreast; and almost all the while I could hear the merry music
of bells, or the clear and joyous voices of sleigh riders, exultant
in the frosty and sparkling air.

With his head pushed under the curtain of the window next
the road, so that his face touched the glass, stood my father,
watching with as much interest, the things without, as I the
pictures in the fire. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets;
both his vest and coat hung loosely open; and so for a half
hour he had stood, dividing my musings with joyous exclamations
as the gay riders went by, singly, or in companies. Now
it was a sled running over with children that he told me of;
now an old man and woman wrapt in a coverlid and driving
one poor horse; and now a bright sleigh with fine horses, jingling
bells, and a troop of merry young folks. Then again he called
out, “There goes a spider-legged thing that I would n't ride in,”
and this remark I knew referred to one of those contrivances
which are gotten up on the spur of a moment, and generally
after the snow begins to fall, consisting of two limber saplings

on which a seat is fixed, and which serve for runners, fills,
and all.

It was not often we had such a deep snow as this, and it
carried the thoughts of my father away back to his boyhood,
for he had lived among the mountains then, and been used to
the hardy winters which keep their empire nearly half the year.
Turning from the window, he remarked, at length, “This is a
nice time to go to Uncle Christopher's, or some where.”

“Yes,” I said, “it would be a nice time;” but I did not think
so, all the while, for the snow and I were never good friends. I
knew, however, that my father would like above all things to
visit Uncle Christopher, and that, better still, though he did not
like to own it, he would enjoy the sleighing.

“I want to see Uncle Christopher directly,” he continued,
“about getting some spring wheat to sow.”

“It is very cold,” I said, “is n't it?” I really could n't help
the question.

“Just comfortably so,” he answered, moving back from the
fire.

Two or three times I tried to say, “Suppose we go,” but the
words were difficult, and not till he had said, “Nobody ever
wants to go with me to Uncle Christopher's, nor anywhere,” did
I respond, heartily, “Oh, yes, father, I want to go.”

In a minute afterwards, I heard him giving directions about
the sleigh and horses.

“I am afraid, sir, you 'll find it pretty cold,” replied Billy, as
he rose to obey.

“I do n't care about going myself,” continued my father,
apologetically, “but my daughter has taken a fancy to a ride,
and so I must oblige her.”

A few minutes, and a pair of handsome, well-kept horses
were champing the bit, and pawing the snow at the door, while
shawls, mittens, &c., were warmed at the fire. It was hard to
see the bright coals smothered under the ashes, and the chairs
set away; but I forced a smile to my lips, and as my father
said “Ready?” I answered “Ready,” and the door closed on
the genial atmosphere—the horses stepped forward and backward,
flung their heads up and down, curved their necks to the

tightening rein, and we were off. The fates be praised, it is not
to do again. All the shawls and muffs in Christendom could
not avail against such a night—so still, clear, and intensely
cold. The very stars seemed sharpened against the ice, and
the white moonbeams slanted earthward, and pierced our faces
like thorns—I think they had substance that night, and were
stiff; and the thickest veil, doubled twice or thrice, was less
than gossamer, and yet the wind did not blow, even so much
as to stir one flake of snow from the bent boughs.

At first we talked with some attempts at mirth, but sobered
presently and said little, as we glided almost noiselessly along
the hard and smooth road. We had gone, perhaps, five miles
to the northward, when we turned from the paved and level
way into a narrow lane, or neighborhood road, as it was called,
seeming to me hilly and winding and wild, for I had never been
there before. The track was not so well worn, but my father
pronounced it better than that we had left, and among the
stumps and logs, and between hills and over hills, now through
thick woods, and now through openings, we went crushing along.
We passed a few cabins and old-fashioned houses, but not
many, and the distances between them grew greater and greater,
and there were many fields and many dark patches of woods
between the lights. Every successive habitation I hoped would
terminate our journey—our pleasure, I should have said—yet
still we went on, and on.

“Is it much farther?” I asked, at length.

“Oh, no—only four or five miles,” replied my father; and
he added, “Why, are you getting cold?”

“Not much,” I said, putting my hand to my face to ascertain
that it was not frozen.

At last we turned into a lane, narrower, darker, and more
lonesome still—edged with woods on either side, and leading
up and up and up farther than I could see. No path had been
previously broken, and the horses sunk knee deep at every step,
their harness tightening as they strained forward, and their
steamy breath drifting back, and freezing stiff my veil. At the
summit the way was interrupted by a cross fence, and a gate
was to be opened—a heavy thing, painted red, and fastened

with a chain. It had been well secured, for after half an hour's
attempts to open it, we found ourselves defied.

“I guess we 'll have to leave the horses and walk to the
house,” said my father; “it 's only a little step.”

I felt terrible misgivings; the gate opened into an orchard;
I could see no house, and the deep snow lay all unbroken; but
there was no help; I must go forward as best I could, or remain
and freeze. It was difficult to choose, but I decided to go on.
In some places the snow was blown aside, and we walked a
few steps on ground almost bare, but in the end high drifts met
us, through which we could scarcely press our way. In a little
while we began to descend, and soon, abruptly, in a nook sheltered
by trees, and higher hills, I saw a curious combination of
houses—brick, wood, and stone—and a great gray barn, looking
desolate enough in the moonlight, though about it stood half a
dozen of inferior size. But another and a more cheerful indication
of humanity attracted me. On the brink of the hill
stood two persons with a small hand-sled between them, which
they seemed to have just drawn up; in the imperfect light,
they appeared to be mere youths, the youngest not more than
ten or twelve years of age. Their laughter rang on the cold
air, and our approach, instead of checking, seemed to increase
their mirth.

“Laugh, Mark, laugh,” said the taller of the two, as we
drew near, “so they will see our path—they 're going right
through the deep snow.”

But in stead, the little fellow stepped manfully forward, and
directed us into the track broken by their sleds.

At the foot of the hill we came upon the medley of buildings,
so incongruous that they might have been blown together by
chance. Light appeared in the windows of that portion which
was built of stone, but we heard no sound, and the snow about
the door had not been disturbed since its fall. “And this,”
said I, “is where Uncle Christopher Wright lives?”

A black dog, with yellow spots under his eyes, stood suddenly
before us, and growled so forbiddingly that we drew
back.

“He will not bite,” said the little boy; for the merry

makers had landed on their sled at the foot of the hill, and
followed us to the door; and in a moment the larger youth
dashed past us, seized the dog by the fore paws, and dragged
him violently aside, snarling and whimpering all the time.
“Haven't you got no more sense,” he exclaimed, “than to
bark so at a gentleman and ladies?”