_He hath made every thing beautiful in his time.—Ecclesiastes 3:11._
Snow is the adornment of winter. Its beauty is a compensation for the
loss of the flowers and foliage of the milder seasons. When Nature has
put off her green robes, when the fields have become bare, the streams
and lakes ice-bound, and the hum of the bees and the songs of the birds
are no longer heard, then God opens his treasure-house and brings forth
jewels for the coronation of the year. He throws over the earth a robe
of purest white, he festoons each shrub and tree with diamonds and
pearls, and bids every beholder rejoice in these manifestations of his
skill. For all the beauty of the earth is but the outward expression
of the beauty which dwells eternal in the Divine Mind. Each six-leaved
blossom of winter had its pattern in his thought before it was created;
and all the diversities of its forms show the wealth of his resources
even in the smallest things. So God has not left himself “without
witness” for a single season. Each has its message from heaven,
unfolding his glories, and bidding man behold and adore.
* * * * *
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
_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.