Part 4

And is there not wealth as well as power in the enormous quantity of this one form of treasure lavished on the earth in one year? In one night you have found the earth covered with a carpet two feet in thickness. But if it requires millions of flakes for one cubic foot, what must it require to cover half the breadth of a continent on a meridian line of one thousand miles? And if that is repeated several months in each year, the mind staggers in the attempt at computation. “He giveth his snow like wool!” He scatters his pearls and diamonds by innumerable millions upon the earth. What prodigality of bounty our King displays!

The sovereign God gives the snow. It comes when he pleases, and falls where it pleases him to have it, on your house and your land; and you have no title that can prevent or bar his right. Napoleon may be the dread of kings, the mightiest monarch and warrior of the earth. He may be stronger than Russia, and may penetrate as far as Moscow. But Jehovah will there put a bridle in his mouth and a hook in his nostrils, and turn him backward, baffled, broken, disgraced. And he wanted for an instrument to accomplish his purposes the army of snow-flakes. He laid the deep covering of snow upon the earth; and the mighty army found themselves conquered by this little, gentle, silent instrument of God’s power. God could have sent one warm storm of rain, and set the French army free. But he did not. He ruleth in the armies of heaven and doeth his pleasure among the inhabitants of the earth.

Kirk.

_Scene in a Vermont Winter._

Tis a fearful night in the winter-time, As cold as it ever can be; The roar of the blast is heard like the chime Of the waves on an angry sea. The moon is full; but her silver light The storm dashes out with its wings to-night; And over the sky from south to north Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth In the strength of a mighty glee.

All day had the snow come down,—all day,— As it never came down before; And over the hills, at sunset, lay Some two or three feet or more; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone; The windows blocked, and the well-curbs gone; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, As it lay by the farmer’s door.

The night sets in on a world of snow, While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of the fearful blow Is heard on the distant hill:

And the Norther, see! on the mountain-peak, In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow; He shouts on the plains, Ho-ho! ho-ho! And growls with a savage trill.

Such a night as this to be found abroad, In the drifts and the freezing air! Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair. He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; He lifts his head and moans and howls; Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, His nose is pressed on his quivering feet,— Pray what does the dog do there?

A farmer came from the village plain, But he lost the traveled way; And for hours he trod with might and main A path for his horse and sleigh, But colder still the cold winds blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, At last in her struggles floundered down, Where a log in a hollow lay.

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow, While her master urged, till his breath grew short, With a word and a gentle blow. But the snow was deep and the tugs were tight; His hands were numb and had lost their might; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day, With his coat and the buffalo.

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed; And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For help in his master’s need. For a while he strives, with a wistful cry, To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, And whines when he takes no heed.

The wind goes down and the storm is o’er— ’Tis the hour of midnight, past, The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon, with her peaceful light, Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel’s Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, Afar on the plain are cast.

But cold and dead, by the hidden log, Are they who came from the town,— The man in his sleigh and his faithful dog And his beautiful Morgan brown In the white snow desert, far and grand, With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand— The dog with his nose on his master’s feet, And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet Where she lay when she floundered down.

Charles Gamage Eastman.

_The Pass of the Sierra._

All night above their rocky bed They saw the stars march slow; The wild Sierra overhead, The desert’s death below.

The Indian from his lodge of bark, The gray bear from his den, Beyond their camp-fire’s wall of dark, Glared on the mountain men.

Still upward turned, with anxious strain, Their leader’s sleepless eye, Where splinters of the mountain-chain Stood black against the sky.

The night waned slow; at last, a glow, A gleam of sudden fire, Shot up behind the walls of snow, And tipped each icy spire.

“Up, men!” he cried. “Yon rocky cone, To-day, please God, we’ll pass, And look from Winter’s frozen throne On Summer’s flowers and grass!”

They set their faces to the blast, They trod the eternal snow, And, faint, worn, bleeding, hailed at last The promised land below.

Behind, they saw the snow-cloud tossed By many an icy horn; Before, warm valleys, wood-embossed, And green with vines and corn.

They left the Winter at their backs, To flap his baffled wing, And downward, with the cataracts, Leaped to the lap of Spring.

Strong leader of that mountain band! Another task remains: To break from Slavery’s desert land A path to Freedom’s plains!

The winds are wild, the way is drear, Yet, flashing through the night, Lo! icy ridge and rocky spear Blaze out in morning light!

Rise up, Frément! and go before; The hour must have its man; Put on the hunting-shirt once more, And lead in Freedom’s van!

Whittier.

Gladness.

_Thou hast made Summer and Winter.—Psalm 74:17._

How delightful is the face of nature when the morning light first dawns upon a country embosomed in snow! The thick mist which obscured the earth and concealed every object from our view at once vanishes. How beautiful are the tops of the trees, hoary with frost! The hills and valleys, reflecting the sunbeams, assume various tints; all nature is animated by the genial influence of the brightness, and, robed in white, delights the traveler with her novel and delicate appearance. How beautiful to see the white hills, the forests, and the groves all sparkling! What a delightful combination these objects present! Observe the brilliancy of the hedges! See the lofty trees bending beneath their dazzling burden! The surface of the earth appears one vast plain mantled in white and splendid array.

Sturm.

* * * * *

Already snow-birds are fluttering for a foothold, and showering down the frosty dust from the twigs. The hens and their uplifted lords are beginning to wade with dainty steps through the chilly wool. Boys are aglee with sleds; men are out with shovels, and dames with brooms. Bells begin to ring along the highway, and heavy oxen with craunching sleds are wending toward the woods for the winter’s supply of fuel. The school-house is open, and a roasting fire rages in the box-stove. Little boys are crying with chilblains, and little girls are comforting them with the assurance that it will “stop aching pretty soon,” and the boys seem unwilling to stop crying until then. Big boys are shaking their coats, and stamping off the snow, which peels easily from sleek, black-balled boots, or shoes burnished with tallow. Out of doors, the snowballs are flying, and every body laughs but the one that’s hit. Down go the wrestlers. The big ones “rub” the little ones; the little ones in turn “rub” the smaller ones. The passers-by are pelted; and many a lazy horse has motives of speed applied to his lank sides. Even the schoolmaster is but mortal, and must take his lot; for many an “accidental” snowball plumps into his breast and upon his back before the rogues will believe that it _is_ the schoolmaster.

But days go by. The snow drifts,—fences are banked up ten feet high. Hills are broken into a “coast” for boys’ sleds. They slide and pull up again, and toil on in their slippery pleasure. They tumble over and turn over; they break down, or smash up; they run into each other, or run races, in all the moods and experiences of rugged frolic. Then comes the digging of chambers in the deep drifts, room upon room, the water dashed on overnight freezing the snow-walls into solid ice. Forts are also built, and huge balls of snow rolled up, till the little hands can roll the mass no longer.

Beecher.

* * * * *

For two days it had been storming. The air was murky and cross. The snow was descending, not peacefully and dreamily, but whirled and made wild by fierce winds. The forests were laden with snow, and their interior looked murky and dreadful as a witch’s den. Through such scenes I began my ride upon the plow-shoving engine. The engineers and firemen were coated with snow from head to foot, and looked like millers who had not brushed their coats for ten years. The floor on which we stood was ice and snow half melted. The wood was coated with snow. The locomotive was frosted all over with snow,—wheels, connecting-rods, axles, and every thing but the boiler and smoke-stack. The side and front windows were glazed with crusts of ice, and only through one little spot in the window over the boiler could I peer out to get a sight of the plow. The track was indistinguishable. There was nothing to the eye to guide the engine in one way more than another. It seemed as if we were going across fields and plunging through forests at random. And this gave no mean excitement to the scene, when two ponderous engines were apparently driving us in such an outlandish excursion. But their feet were sure, and unerringly felt their way along the iron road, so that we were held in our courses.

Nothing can exceed the beauty of snow in its own organization, in the gracefulness with which it falls, in the molding of its drift-lines, and in the curves which it makes when streaming off on either side from the plow. It was never long the same. If the snow was thin and light, the plow seemed to play tenderly with it, like an artist doing curious things for sport, throwing it in exquisite curves that rose and fell, quivered and trembled as they ran. Then suddenly striking a rift that had piled across the track, the snow sprang out, as if driven by an explosion, twenty and thirty feet, in jets and bolts; or like long-stemmed sheaves of snow,—outspread, fan-like. Instantly, when the drift was passed, the snow seemed by an instinct of its own to retract, and played again in exquisite curves, that rose and fell about our prow. “Now you’ll get it,” says the engineer, “in that deep cut.” We only saw the first dash, as if the plow had struck the banks of snow before it could put on its graces, and shot it distracted and headlong up and down on either side, like spray or flying ashes. It was but a second. For the fine snow rose up around the engine, and covered it in like a mist, and, sucking round, poured in upon us in sheets and clouds, mingled with the vapor of steam, and the smoke which, from impeded draft, poured out, filled the engine-room and darkened it so that we could not see each other a foot distant, except as very filmy specters glowering at each other. Our engineers had on buffalo coats whose natural hirsuteness was made more shaggy by tags of snow melted into icicles. To see such substantial forms changing back and forth into a spectral lightness, as if they went back and forth between body and spirit, was not a little exciting to the imagination.

When we struck deep bodies of snow, the engine plowed through them laboriously, quivering and groaning with the load, but shot forth again, nimble as a bird, the moment the snow grew light and thin.

Nothing seemed wilder than to be in one of these whirling storms of smoke, vapor, and snow, you on one ponderous monster, and another roaring close behind, both engines like fiery dragons harnessed and fastened together, and looming up when the snow and mists opened a little, black and terrible. It seemed as if you were in a battle. There was such energetic action, such irresistible power, such darkness and light alternating, and such fitful half-lights, which are more exciting to the imagination than light or darkness. Thus, whirled on in the bosom of a storm, you sped across the open fields, full of wild-driving snow; you ran up to the opening of the black pine and hemlock woods, and plunged into their somber mouth as if into a cave of darkness, and wrestled your way along through their dreary recesses, emerging to the cleared field again, with whistles screaming and answering each other back and forth from engine to engine.

Ib.

* * * * *

It is not only that the snow makes fair what was good before, but it is a messenger of love from heaven, bearing glad tidings of great joy. Hope for the future comes down to the earth in every tiny snow-flake. Underneath, as they span the hillside, and lie lightly piled in the valleys, the earth-spirits and fairies are ceaselessly working out their multifold plans. The grasses hold high carnival safe under their crystal roof. The roses and lilies keep holiday. The snow-drops and hyacinths, and the pink-lipped May-flower, wait as they that watch for the morning. The life that stirs beneath thrills to the life that stirs above. The spring sun will mount higher and higher in the heavens; the sweet snow will sink down into the arms of the violets, and, at the word of the Lord, the Earth shall come up once more as a bride adorned for her husband.

Gail Hamilton.

_The Time of Snow._

Brave Winter and I shall ever agree, Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he. I like to hear him, with hail and rain, Come tapping against the window-pane; I like to see him come marching forth, Begirt with the icicle-gems of the north; But I like him best, when he comes bedight In his velvet robes of stainless white.

A cheer for the snow,—the drifting snow, Smoother and purer than Beauty’s brow! The creature of thought scarce likes to tread On the delicate carpet daintily spread. With feathery wreaths the forest is bound, And the hills are with glittering diamonds crowned. ’Tis the fairest scene we can have below, Sing a welcome, then, to the drifting snow.

The urchins gaze with eloquent eye, To see the flakes go dancing by. In the blinding storm how happy are they, To welcome, the first deep, snowy day! Shouting and pelting, what bliss to fall, Half-smothered, beneath the well-aimed ball!

Men of fourscore, did ye ever know Such sport as ye had in the drifting snow? Ye rejoice in it still, and love to see The ermine mantle on tower and tree. ’Tis the fairest scene we can have below, Hurrah! then hurrah! for the drifting snow!

Eliza Cook.

_A Winter Sketch._

’Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air, Of winds upon their battle-ground; But gently there The snow is falling,—all around, How fair,—how fair!

The jocund fields would masquerade; Fantastic scene! Tree, shrub and lawn and lonely glade Have cast their green, And joined the revel, all arrayed So white and clean.

E’en the old posts, that hold the bars, And the old gate, Forgetful of their wintry wars And age sedate, High-capped and plumed, like white hussars, Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the sill, The eaves, the door; The haystack has become a hill; All covered o’er The wagon loaded for the mill The eve before.

Maria brings the water-pail, But where’s the well? Like magic of a fairy tale, Most strange to tell, All vanished, curb and crank and rail! How deep it fell!

The wood-pile, too, is playing hide; The axe, the log, The kennel of that friend so tried,— Theold watch-dog,— The grindstone standing by its side, All now _incog_.

The bustling cock looks out aghast From his high shed; No spot to scratch him a repast;— Up curves his head, Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, And back to bed.

Old drowsy dobbin, at the call, Amazed, awakes; Out from the window of his stall A view he takes; While thick and faster seem to fall The silent flakes.

The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime Their morning moan; Like Memnon’s music of old time,— That voice of stone! So warbled they, and so sublime Their solemn tone.

Good Ruth has called the younker-folk To dress below; Full welcome was the word she spoke; Down, down they go, The cottage quietude is broke,— The snow!—the snow!

Now rises from around the fire A pleasant strain; Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire! And ye profane! A hymn to the Eternal Sire Goes up again.

The patriarchal Book divine, Upon the knee, Opes where the gems of Judah shine, (Sweet minstrelsy!) How soars each heart with each fair line, O God, to Thee!

Around the altar low they bend, Devout in prayer; As snows upon the roof descend, So angels there Come down that household to defend With gentle care.

While mounts the eddying smoke amain From many a hearth, And all the landscape rings again With rustic mirth, So gladsome seems to every swain The snowy earth.

Hoyt.

Gloom.

_Hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the time of trouble?—Job 38:22._

Not in his splendors, only, nor his beneficence, does God manifest himself to men. “The Lord Most High is _terrible_.” His holiness is for ever arrayed in frowns and rebuke against wrong. It is pleasant to dwell on his love, to speak of him as the Father of all his creatures, full of pity and condescension for the most erring. The heart that responds to his with reciprocal affection, penitent for sins committed, trustful in his promises of pardon through a Redeemer, and constrained by filial devotion to grateful service and worship, may rest in the sweet contemplation of his goodness. But let it not be forgotten at the same time that he is holy as well as good, “merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that he will by no means clear the guilty.”

It is fitting that this part, also, of the Divine character should be illustrated in his works. Therefore, he hath appointed the earthquake, the lightning, and the tempest, to be, with the sunshine and the gentle breezes, representatives of himself. Even the snow, so soft and beautiful, he makes a messenger of gloom. The dark, fierce winter storm sweeps over the earth as the very spirit of desolation. The tiny flakes, charged with the mission which he gives them, fly forth in numbers infinite to buffet, to bewilder, to overwhelm whatever is exposed to them. Who can resist these “treasures” of the storm when let loose in their strength? “Who can stand before his cold?”

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce All Winter drives along the darkened air, In his own loose, revolving fields the swain Disastered stands;——and wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray, Impatient, flouncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home,—the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! What black despair, what horror, fills his mind! When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track and blest abode of man! While round him Night resistless closes fast, And every tempest, howling o’er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, Nor friends nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense; And o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold, Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast.

Thomson.

Winter is a fitting image of decay and death; and the cold, white, winding-sheet that shrouds the blighted flowers, of the robe that is spread over the still form of our heart’s crushed and faded blossoms. True, the flowers shall spring again, and our treasures will be restored to us in the land of eternal summer. Nevertheless, the dreary hour of separation is not joyous, but grievous. Our hopes are withered, our hearts are chilled; disappointment, absence, present loss, distress and torture us. All is gloom, desolation, and anguish. The sun may shine, but his beams are cold and glassy. No pleasures spring about our path. Our life is buried with our darlings in the icy bosom of nature. O Winter, bleak, dismal, wasting, inexorable Winter! Hasten thy footsteps, and bring us to the bright expectant Spring!

_Winter._