Part 3
All the roofs are blanketed with snow; all the fences are bordered. Every gate-post is statuesque; every wood-pile is a marble quarry. Harshest outlines are softened. Instead of angles and ruggedness and squalor, there are billowy, fleecy undulations. Nothing so rough, so common, so ugly, but it has been transfigured into newness of life. Every where the earth has received beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. Without sound of hammer or ax, without the grating of saw or the click of chisel, prose has been sculptured into poetry. The actual has put on the silver vail of the ideal.
Gail Hamilton.
It is almost impossible to paint the glory of the northern winter forests. Every tree, laden with the purest snow, resembled a Gothic fountain of bronze, covered with frozen spray, through which only suggestive glimpses of its delicate tracery could be obtained. From every side we looked over thousands of such mimic fountains, shooting low or high, from their pavements of ivory and alabaster. It was an enchanted wilderness,—white, silent, gleaming, and filled with inexhaustible forms of beauty. To what shall I liken those glimpses under the boughs, into the depths of the forest, where the snow destroyed all perspective, and brought the remotest fairy nooks and coverts, too lovely and fragile to seem cold, into the glittering foreground? “Wonderful!” “Glorious!” I could only exclaim in breathless admiration.
Bayard Taylor.
* * * * *
The forests were indescribable in their silence, whiteness, and wonderful variety of snowy adornment. The weeping birches leaned over the road and formed white-fringed arches; the firs wore mantles of ermine, and muffs and tippets of the softest swan’s down. Snow, wind, and frost had wrought the most marvelous transformations. Here were kneeling nuns with their arms hanging listlessly by their sides, and the white cowls falling over their faces. There lay a warrior’s helmet; lace curtains, torn and ragged, hung from the points of little Gothic spires. Caverns, lined with sparry incrustations, silver palm-leaves, doors, loop-holes, arches, and cascades were thrown together in fantastic confusion, and mingled with the more decided forms of the larger trees, which were trees but in form, so completely were they wrapped in their dazzling disguise. It was an enchanted land, where you scarcely dared breathe, lest a breath might break the spell.
Ib.
* * * * *
The new snow had fallen on the mountains, and the vast basin of the Monte Rosa chain lay before us, clothed in flowing robes of the most pure and spotless white; while every little nook and ledge, and inequality of rock on which the snow could rest, was covered with the same virgin luster, so that it looked as if the sides of the craggy mountains were flecked and dashed with spray, and as if myriads of foaming torrents were coursing down the precipices, streaking their surface with their white tracks in every direction. After we turned to the right and began the ascent, the light became stronger, and the outline sharper, and our view of the vast glacier basin more uninterrupted and clear. The valley of Macregnaga goes very far into the heart of the mountain, so that all the snowy part of Monte Rosa rises in one great mass directly above it. The sun came up, and for two or three minutes, not more, all the upper part of this vast region of snow was dyed of the deepest crimson,—not pink, as an evening view of the Alps often is; then, for much longer, it was of the most brilliant gold,—just the color of a new sovereign; and then, as the sun overtopped the lower mountains, and their shadows were no longer thrown upward, this gorgeous coloring gave place to a dazzling glare. Miles off, as we were, we could hardly look at the snowy basin without blinking.
Wills.
* * * * *
There is in us a want of taste to appreciate the exquisite beauty of the snow-flakes that we tread under foot. There is a narrow selfishness which does not even inquire what are the moral or æsthetic uses of the snow; but is contented or sad to see it come upon the earth, according as it affects our arrangements and wishes. Our education has this radical defect, that it does not teach us to make the senses the instruments of our higher faculties; to study nature, to revere every thing that God makes; that it fails to form us to the highest exercises of which we are capable, and leaves us ignorant of some of the most interesting and important objects of knowledge: God,—his word, his works and ourselves.
Kirk.
_Beauty._
There’s beauty all around our paths, If but our watchful eyes Can trace it, mid familiar things, And through their lowly guise. We may find it in the winter boughs, As they cross the cold blue sky, While soft on icy pool and stream Their penciled shadows lie; When we look upon their tracery, By the fairy frost-work bound, Whence the flitting red-breast shakes a shower Of crystals to the ground.
Hemans.
_The Beautiful Snow._
Oh the snow! the beautiful snow! Filling the sky and the earth below,— Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet. Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along, Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong; Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek, Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak; Beautiful snow from the heavens above, Pure as an angel, and fickle as love!
Oh the snow! the beautiful snow! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! Whirling about in its maddening fun; It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face, and sparkles the eye; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around: The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.
How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song! How the gay sledges, like meteors flash by, Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye! Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go, Over the crust of the beautiful snow,— Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by. To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet. Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.
“Once I was pure as the snow—but I fell; Fell like the snow-flake, from heaven—to hell; Fell, to be trampled as filth of the street, Fell to be scoffed, derided, and beat, Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whomever would buy; Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living, and fearing the dead: Merciful God! have I fallen so low? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!
“Once I was fair as this beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; Once I was loved for my innocent grace, Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sister, all, God and myself I have lost by the fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep lest I venture too nigh; For of all that is on or about me, I know, There is nothing that’s pure but the beautiful snow.
“How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with no where to go! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone wild in their joy at the snow’s coming down, To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud in the beautiful snow!”
Helpless and foul as the trampled snow, Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low, To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment again. Groaning, Bleeding, Dying, for thee, The Crucified hung on the accursed tree!— His accents of mercy fall soft on thine ear. “Is there mercy for me? Will he heed my weak prayer? O God! in the stream that for sinners did flow, Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow!”
Selected.
Weakness.
_The stream of brooks ... wherein the Snow is hid.—Job 6:15._
Lightness and weakness are symbolized by the snow. You can not draw near one of these delicate crystals without danger of destroying it. Your breath will melt it; nay, even the radiation of warmth from your person will, ere you are aware, crumble down the whole fairy structure so elaborately wrought. It floats down, the sport of every breath of air. It can not ruffle the feather of a bird by its falling. It perishes if the sun looks at it. Yet God takes care of it,—numbers it among his treasures. It is not overlooked by him amid all its fellows. When it dies in a tear, God bottles that tear and keeps it still in his treasure-house. Fear not, ye of little faith; ye are of more value than mountains of snow-flakes. Does the Almighty create and delight in it, preserve and guide this little creature, and will he not take care of you, and delight to make you beautiful in holiness, and serviceable in his kingdom? Look up when it storms. The sun is on the other side. God guides the cloud, the wind, the rain, and the snow, and numbers the hairs of your head.
Kirk.
* * * * *
Do a little good at a time, and all the time. The Himalaya is ordered to put on a new robe. How is it to be done? Will a mighty vestment drop from heaven and encircle the mighty ranges of her peaks? No; millions of little maids of honor will come down, and each one contribute some little thread to weave the splendid robe. And by every one doing the little committed to it, the giant mountain stands robed in its celestial garment. You organize a Sunday school among neglected children, and go every Sunday, like a little snow-flake, to add present labor to past. Keep on; that is the way the Himalaya gets its robe.
No good is lost. Stop not to count your converts, to weigh the results of your labors, but keep on like the gentle snow, flake after flake, without noise or parade. Parent, teacher, preacher, patriot, work on!
Ib.
* * * * *
We see the instability of snow, and the rapidity with which it disappears when played upon by the sunbeams, or exposed to the effects of a humid, mild air, and frequent showers. Frequently the whole aspect of nature, in a few hours, assumes a new appearance, and scarcely a trace of snow is left behind. By these sudden changes we may justly be reminded of the inconstancy and vanity of all human affairs. Fleeting as the snow beneath the sunbeams are all the enjoyments and gratifications which do not arise from the influence of religion, the exercise of the mind, and the feelings of the heart; if we cultivate these, we shall be enabled to enjoy a portion of that felicity which endureth for ever,—the sure reward of virtue and a well-spent life.
Sturm.
* * * * *
Soon another silent force will come forth, and a noiseless battle will ensue, in which this now innumerable army of snow-flakes shall be itself vanquished. A rain-drop is stronger than a snow-flake. One by one, the armed drops will dissolve the crystals and let forth the spirit imprisoned in them. Descending quickly into the earth, the drops shall search the roots, and give their breasts to myriad mouths. The bud shall open its eye, the leaf shall lift up its head, the grass shall wave its spear, and the forests hang out their banners! How significant is this silent, gradual, but irresistible power of rain and snow of moral truth in this world! “For, as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater; so shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth; it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.”
Beecher.
_Nothing Lost._
Where is the snow? ’Tis not long ago It covered the earth with a vail of white; We heard not its footsteps soft and light, Yet there it was in the morning bright; Now it hath vanished away from sight. Not a trace remains In fields or lanes.
Where is the frost? It is gone and lost— The forms of beauty last night it made; With pictures rare were windows arrayed; “Be silent!” it said; the brook obeyed; Yet silence and pictures all did fade. At the smile of the sun, All was undone.
Where is the rain? Pattering it came, Dancing along with a merry sound, A grassy bed in the fields it found; Each drop came on the roof with a bound. Where is the rain? It hath left the ground. What good hath it done— Gone away so soon?
Ever, ever, Our best endeavor Seemeth to fall like the melted snow. We work out our thoughts wisely and slow; The seed we sow, but it will not grow. Our hopes, our resolves,—where do they go? What doth remain? Memory and pain.
Nothing is lost,— No snow nor frost That comes to enrich the earth again. We thank them when the ripening grain Is waving over the hill and plain, And the pleasant rain springs from earth again. All endeth in good,— Water and food.
Never despair; Disappointment bear; Though hope seemeth vain, be patient still; Thy good intent God doth fulfill; Thy hand is weak; his powerful will Is finishing thy life-work still. The good endeavor Is lost—ah! never.
Selected.
_Snow-Flakes._
See the feathery snow-flakes Falling from the sky! Myriads; yet so softly, There’s no sound or sigh. Mother Earth’s brown raiment Doffs she for her white; For a fairy’s wand, transforming, Hides it out of sight.
Fairy little snow-flakes, Dancing as ye fall, Resting on the rough old rock By the garden wall, There’s no spot so dreary, Naught so black and cold, But your mantle may o’erspread With its falling fold.
Starry little snow-flakes, Blossoms of the sky, Blooming when earth’s daisies Fast asleep all lie, Are ye beauty’s raiment, On her bridal morn? Or the floating garments By the frost fays worn?
Tell me, mystic snow-flakes, Is your home so far You can hear the singing Of the morning star?— Hear the grand, sweet chorus, As the spheres move on, In their slow, majestic march Round the great white throne?
What are ye, fair snow-flakes, To the King of kings? Unto Him who walketh On the wind’s swift wings, Maketh clouds his chariot, Light no man can see Weareth for a garment,— Snow-flakes, what are ye?
Of his spotless purity But a shadow dim And the silence of our coming Speaketh, too, of Him. Mortals, stay your tear-drops! One day you shall know What it is to be, like Him, “Whiter than the snow.”
H. Maude H.
_The Snow-Shower._
Stand here by my side, and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes; The clouds hang over it heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow; Flake after flake, They sink in the dark and silent lake.
See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty vail; Some hover awhile in the air, and some Rush from the sky like summer hail. All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, Meet and are still in the depth below; Flake after flake, Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.
Here, delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whitens by night the milky way; There broader and burlier masses fall: The sullen water buries them all, Flake after flake, All drowned in the dark and silent lake.
And some, as on tender wings they glide From their chilly birth-cloud dim and gray, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the passage of life: Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.
Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy hight; The fair frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make with their grave so nigh; Flake after flake To lie in the dark and silent lake!
I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and the dear, Who were for a time and now are not; Like these fair children of cloud and frost, That glisten a moment, and then are lost, Flake after flake,— All lost in the deep and silent lake.
Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the mountain lies, And far away on the mountain-side A sunbeam falls from the opening skies; But the hurrying host, that flew between The cloud and the water, no more is seen; Flake after flake At rest in the dark and silent lake.
William Cullen Bryant.
_Questions and Answers._
Pretty little snow-flake, Floating softly by, Bringest thou a message From the fleecy sky?
Yes, ah, yes, a lesson Beautiful as true; Silent be, but busy, When you’ve work to do. Avalanche and snow-drift Grow from single flakes; Every crystal helping, Yet no noise it makes.
Glittering little snow-flakes, White as white can be, How can I be spotless, Chaste, and pure, like thee?
All that comes from heaven Perfect is, like God; But, alas! the sinner Earthly ways has trod; Yet, to God returning, Thence anew to grow, Sins, though they be scarlet, Shall be white as snow.
Loving little snow-flake, Tender is thy tread, Weaving o’er the flowers Dainty coverlet.
Loving work is ever Best, when gently done; All that’s hard and selfish, Rough and cruel, shun. Do each little duty With a smiling face, Gathering all around you In love’s warm embrace.
H. E. B.
POWER
_Persecute them with the tempest and make them afraid with storm._
_Psalm 83:15._
If any one should ask what is the most harmless and innocent thing on earth, he might be answered, a snow-flake. And yet, in its own way of exerting itself, it stands among the foremost powers on earth. When it fills the air, the sun can not shine, the eye becomes powerless; neither hunter, nor pilot, guide nor watchman, is any better than a blind man. The eagle and the mole are on a level of vision. All the kings of the earth could not send forth an edict to mankind, saying, “Let labor cease.” But this white-plumed light infantry clears out the fields, drives men home from the highway, and puts half a continent under ban. It is a despiser of old landmarks, and very quietly unites all properties, covering up fences, hiding paths and roads, and doing in one day a work which the engineers and laborers of the whole earth could not do in years!
But let the wind arise, and how is this peaceful seeming of snow-flakes changed! In an instant the air raves. There is fury and spite in the atmosphere. It pelts you and searches you out in every fold and seam of your garments. It comes without search-warrant into each crack and crevice of your house. It pours over the hills, and lurks down in valleys, or roads, or cuts, until in a night it has entrenched itself formidably against the most expert human strength; for now, lying in drifts huge and wide, it bids defiance to engine and engineer. Before it this wonderful engine is as tame as a wounded bird; all its spirit is gone. No blow is struck. The snow puts forth no power. It simply lies still. That is enough. The laboring engine groans and pushes; backs out and plunges in again; retreats and rushes again. It becomes entangled. The snow is every where. It is before it and behind it. It penetrates the whole engine, is sucked up in the draft, whirls in sheets into the engine-room; torments the cumbered wheels, clogs the joints, and, packing down under the drivers, it fairly lifts the ponderous engine from its feet, and strands it across the track! Well done, snow! That was a notable victory!
Beecher.
* * * * *
Look at the gentle flake coming down so silently, and then turn to contemplate its prodigious effects. Parent of a thousand of the streams and rivers that water and fertilize our globe, the snow-flake is equally the parent of the thundering avalanche that at St. Bernard overwhelms the unhappy traveler before he reaches the hospitable convent. In the afternoon, you find yourself suddenly caught in a storm. What is it that eclipses the sun, hours before his setting, that hides every landmark from the sight of the anxious guide, that turns day into sudden night? It is the snow-flake; for in the little thing is the hiding of God’s power.