We sleep，and at length awake to the still reality of a winter morning.The snow lies warm as cotton or down upon the window sill;the broadened sash and frosted panes admit a dim and private light，which enhances the snug cheer within.The stillness of the morning is impressive.The floor creaks under our feet as we move toward the window to look abroad through some clear space over the fields，we see the roofs stand under their snow burden.From the eaves and fences hang stalactites of snow，and in the yard stand stalagmites covering some concealed core.The trees and shrubs rear white arms to the sky on every side;and where were walls and fences，we see fantastic forms stretching in frolic gambols across the dusky landscape，as if Nature had strewn her fresh designs over the fields by nightas models for man’s art.
Silently we unlatch the door，letting the drift fall in，and step abroad to face the cutting air.Already the stars have lost some of their sparkle，and a dull，leaden mist skirts the horizon.A lurid brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day，while the western landscape is dim and spectral still，and clothed in a somber Tartarean light，like the shadowy realms.They are infernal sounds only that you hear-the crowing of cocks，the barking of dogs，the chopping of wood，the lowing of kine，all seem to come from Pluto’s barnyard and beyond the Styx-not for any melancholy they suggest，but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth.The recent tracks of the fox or otter，in the yard，remind us that each hour of the night is crowded with events，and the primeval nature is still working and making tracks in the snow.Opening the gate，we tread briskly along the lone country road，crunching the dry and crisped snow under our feet，or aroused by the sharp，clear creak of the wood sled，just starting for the distant market，from the early farmer’s door，where it has lain the summer long，dreaming amid the chips and stubble;while far through the drifts and powdered windows we see the farmer’s early candle，like a paled star，emitting a lonely beam，as if some severe virtue were at its matins there.And one by one the smokes begin to ascend from the chimneys amid the trees and snows.
We hear the sound of wood chopping at the farmers’doors，far over the frozen earth，the baying of the house-dog，and the distant clarion of the cockthough the thin and frosty air conveys only the finer particles of sound to our ears，with short and sweet vibrations，as the waves subside soonest on the purestand lightest liquids，in which gross substances sink to the bottom.They come clear and bell-like，and from a greater distance in the horizons，as if there were fewer impediments than in summer to make them faint and ragged.The ground is sonorous，like seasoned wood，and even the ordinary rural sounds are melodious，and the jingling of the ice on the trees is sweet and liquid.There is the least possible moisture in the atmosphere，all being dried up or congealed，and it is of such extreme tenuity and elasticity that it becomes a source of delight.The withdrawn and tense sky seems groined like the aisles of a cathedral，and the polished air sparkles as if there were crystals of ice floating in it.As they who have resided in Greenland tell us that when it freezes“the sea smokes like burning turfland，and a fog or mist arises，called frost-smoke，”which cutting smoke frequently raises blisters on the face and hands，and is very pernicious to the health.”But this pure，stinging cold is an elixir to the lungs，and not so much a frozen mist as a crystallized midsummer haze，refined and purified by cold.……
In winter，nature is a cabinet of curiosities，full of dried specimens，in their natural order and position.The meadows and forests are a hortus siccus.The leaves and grasses stand perfectly pressed by the air without screw or gum，and the bird’s nests are not hung on an artificial twig，but where they built them.
But now，while we have loitered，the clouds have gathered again，and a few straggling snowflakes are beginning to descend.Faster and faster they fall，shutting out the distant objects from sight.The snow falls on every wood and field，and no crevice is forgotten;by the river and the pond，on the hill and in the valley.
Quadrupeds are confined to their coverts and the birds sit upon their perches this peaceful hour.There is not so much sound as in fair weather，but silently and gradually every slope，and the gray walls and fences，and the polished ice，and the sere leaves，which were not buried before，are concealed，and the tracks of men and beasts are lost.With so little effort does nature reassert her rule and blot out the trace of men.Hear how Homer has described the same：“The snowflakes fall thick and fast on a winter’s day.The winds are lulled，and the snow falls incessant，covering the tops of the mountains，and the hills，and the plains where the lotus tree grows，and the cultivated fields，and they are falling by the inlets and shores of the foaming sea，but are silently dissolved by the waves.”The snow levels all things，and infolds them deeper in the bosom of nature，as，in the slow summer，vegetation creeps up to the entablature of the temple，and the turrets of the castle，and helps her to prevail over art.
