to be overthrown by a vagrant eddy. Ceaselessly, relentlessly works the wind, shifting the folds of white.

When morning dawns, the clouds break and the sun struggles forth to look upon a new earth. The air is frosty, keen, and fresh. The wind still hurries over the new white surface, altering, smoothing, building banks and filling hollows. In the wide sweep of his arms he gathers all the erring snowflakes, and tumbles them hither and thither until he has them safely in their appointed restingplace. How they dance in the early lightbeams, up and down, glitter and spangle, and away to yonder drift; one after the other-miniature clouds of diamond-dust, corralled by the indefatigable wind-master.

As

There is a charm about this snow cover which cannot be clothed in words. we step out into its dazzling expanse, our feet sink yieldingly, as if we were walking on cushions. With each step this seems an ever new experience. 'Tis fine to tramp a nice fresh patch of snow. When the layer is deep and feathery, every pullup of the feet results in the scatterment of small snow clumps, which break in a wonderful manner the monotony of the iridescent mass. Among the clumps the light seems to linger lovingly, making the way pregnant with possibilities to the observing eye.

Then there is the novelty of making new lines, all one's own, in the landscape, which claims our attention, and wholly captivates us for many a day. Those snow-paths, what stories they tell! Did we ever dream our wanderings were so eccentric as the snow-trail tells us! Right and left, doubling for a view, avoiding an obstacle, jumping a hollow; we gaze back in surprise at its convolutions—and laugh.

The absence of odor strongly characterizes the winter months of the year; especially those during which snow covers the earth. Spring has its incense, summer its heavy perfumes, autumn glories in a number of elusive scents, winter has none. Just a freshness of the air, a clearness which brings with every breath tonic qualities. The first few dips we take of its cold purity hurt the summer-balm pampered nostrils. Yet how soon those inspirations set to rights our befuddled brai and swell the chest as never did

a softer atmosphere! The nostrils dilate, the eyes dance, ears tingle, rosy cheeks come; now it is winter, this is its charm.

We

We

The little paths which wound so invitingly from the edge of the meadow to the wood have all disappeared. So here we resolve to dispense with crooks, and strike out in a straight line for the trees. enter the woods; what a transformation! The forest has become a jewel-laden feminine thing! nine thing! Bough and bole, limb and twig, every line is repeated in white. look from the edge of this forest beautiful across the valley, and the distances seem wonderfully clear and distinct. Yon house, those ungarnered shocks, which faded so indistinctly into the brown earth a few weeks ago, now stand forth in sharp silhouette. It is a glorious privilege, this looking forth over a broad expanse of snow, scintillating or fading into grayness, alternately, as clouds hide the sun's face. What a burst of brilliance, when but one spot in the center of the field receives of a sudden the sun's uninterrupted rays! A gem of dazzling fire set in dull metal is the feeling it conveys.

Within the woods all is still, as if the trees were afraid to move-like a fine lady fearful of disarranging her ornaments. Under the trees, around the bushes, and along the fence-rails, are marked many trails: tracks of small paws, of hopping birds, and sometimes the larger threehole of the rabbit. Did you ever follow them? was it not fascinating? Here in the deep woods we who are acquainted may dig down and find that faithful evergreen, the Christmas fern. Perhaps we have not noted the absence of color in this great panorama of black and white; but at sight of this one note in green, how it all comes back with a surge-our color-longing! We find pleasure in the sight of vivid seed-berries of the bittersweet, pendent still on their long, slender threads from stalks of green. They and the red berries of the wild rose afford the brightest colors in winter's domain.

A cloudy gray day is the time to look up. Then there is no sun to hurt, no glare which blinds the eyes. We may explore the tree-tops with assurance. Trees are trees only in winter. Then they have individuality. Each skeleton body is outlined against the sky, the limbs sweeping in bold curves, interrupted at times by

subtle angles. The edge of the wood in the distance forms a delicate tracery. This is the time of the forest monarchs' pride; they bow not now to any storm, as they did in summer-time, when hampered by their feminine leaf consorts. Now they are bachelors, all this doughty band, and though they sway to the passion of the winter's blast, they yield not one jot in their sturdy masculinity.

We notice now, too, the weeds and small bushes with their curious branchings, their solid phalanxes of black, against the encompassing white. The pepperidge with its irregular growth, and the ironweed furnishing studies in vertical lines, make interesting foregrounds which we never saw with seeing eyes before. How great is the similitude between a growth of weeds and the forest; size only differentiates them, otherwise they are the same. Were we giants, the trees would present much the aspect the weeds do now.

In the bushes we note many last year's birds' nests quite close to earth.

Empty

and deserted, yet withal cunning things. When last summer we saw the birds disappear in these same shrubs, and searched diligently for their homes, we found nothing. Yet here they are with their mask of leafage removed, the most conspicuous objects in the clump. We resolve to bear this in mind and search with greater exactness next time.

Of the birds themselves, only the crows, the sparrows, and those delights, the cardinals, remain. Of all the bright summer birds, the cardinal alone stays to cheer us in those latter days of winter when the increasing bleakness of the view numbs the hungering eye.

For, to confess, is not the day when the snow melts in rushes from the hillside, and the little brook leaps and tumbles the water down over its yet icy bed, a wonderful day? The winter has grown long, we are half benumbed, a lethargy attacks us, and then comes this day of exultation-the snows are melting: spring is again at hand!