There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning，and through the partially-frosted window-panes I love towatch the gradual beginning of the storm. A few featheryflakes are scattered widely through the air and hoverdownward with uncertain flight， now almost alighting onthe earth， now whirled again aloft into remote regionsof the atmosphere. These are not the big flakes heavywith moisture which melt as they touch the groundand are portentous of a soaking rain. It is to be in goodearnest a wintry storm. The two or three people visibleon the sidewalks have an aspect of endurance， a bluenosed，frosty fortitude， which is evidently assumed inanticipation of a comfortless and blustering day. Bynightfall—or， at least， before the sun sheds anotherglimmering smile upon us—the street and our little gardenwill be heaped with mountain snowdrifts. The soil， alreadyfrozen for weeks past， is prepared to sustain whateverburden may be laid upon it， and to a Northern eye thelandscape will lose its melancholy bleakness and acquire abeauty of its own when Mother Earth， like her children，shall have put on the fleecy garb of her winter’s wear.
The cloud-spirits are slowly weaving her white mantle.
As yet， indeed， there is barely a rime like hoar-frost overthe brown surface of the street； the withered green of thegrass-plat is still discernible， and the slated roofs of thehouses do but begin to look gray instead of black. All thesnow that has yet fallen within the circumference of myview， were it heaped up together， would hardly equal thehillock of a grave. Thus gradually by silent and stealthyinfluences are great changes wrought. These little snowparticleswhich the storm-spirit flings by handfuls throughthe air will bury the great Earth under their accumulatedmass， nor permit her to behold her sister Sky again fordreary months. We likewise shall lose sight of our mother’sfamiliar visage， and must content ourselves with lookingheavenward the oftener.
Now， leaving the Storm to do his appointed office， let ussit down， pen in hand， by our fireside. Gloomy as it mayseem， there is an influence productive of cheerfulness andfavorable to imaginative thought in the atmosphere of asnowy day. The native of a Southern clime may woo theMuse beneath the heavy shade of summer foliage recliningon banks of turf， while the sound of singing-birds andwarbling rivulets chimes in with the music of his soul.
In our brief summer I do not think， but only exist in thevague enjoyment of a dream. My hour of inspiration—ifthat hour ever comes—is when the green log hisses uponthe hearth， and the bright flame， brighter for the gloomof the chamber， rustles high up the chimney， and the coalsdrop tinkling down among the growing heaps of ashes.
When the casement rattles in the gust and the snowflakesor the sleety raindrops pelt hard against the windowpanes，then I spread out my sheet of paper with the
certainty that thoughts and fancies will gleam forth uponit like stars at twilight or like violets in May， perhaps tofade as soon. However transitory their glow， they at leastshine amid the darksome shadow which the clouds of theoutward sky fling through the room. Blessed， therefore，and reverently welcomed by me， her true-born son， beNew England’s winter， which makes us one and all thenurslings of the storm and sings a familiar lullaby even inthe wildest shriek of the December blast. Now look weforth again and see how much of his task the storm-spirithas done.
Slow and sure！ He has the day—perchance the week—before him， and may take his own time to accomplishNature’s burial in snow. A smooth mantle is scarcely yetthrown over the withered grass-plat， and the dry stalks ofannuals still thrust themselves through the white surfacein all parts of the garden. The leafless rose-bushes standshivering in a shallow snowdrift， looking， poor things！ asdisconsolate as if they possessed a human consciousnessof the dreary scene. This is a sad time for the shrubs thatdo not perish with the summer. They neither live nordie； what they retain of life seems but the chilling senseof death. Very sad are the flower-shrubs in midwinter.
The roofs of the houses are now all white， save where theeddying wind has kept them bare at the bleak corners.
To discern the real intensity of the storm， we must fixupon some distant object—as yonder spire—and observehow the riotous gust fights with the descending snowthroughout the intervening space. Sometimes the entireprospect is obscured； then， again， we have a distinct buttransient glimpse of the tall steeple， like a giant’s ghost；and now the dense wreaths sweep between， as if demonswere flinging snowdrifts at each other in mid-air. Looknext into the street， where we have an amusing parallel tothe combat of those fancied demons in the upper regions.
It is a snow-battle of schoolboys. What a pretty satire onwar and military glory might be written in the form ofa child’s story by describing the snow-ball fights of tworival schools， the alternate defeats and victories of each，and the final triumph of one party， or perhaps of neither！
