_Persecute them with the tempest and make them afraid with storm._
_Psalm 83:15._
[Illustration]
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.
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.
[Illustration]
_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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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._
Oh the long and dreary Winter!
Oh the cold and cruel Winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker
Froze the ice on lake and river;
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Fell the snow o’er all the landscape,—
Fell the covering snow, and drifted
Through the forest, round the village.
Hardly from his buried wigwam
Could the hunter force a passage;
With his mittens and his snow-shoes
Vainly walked he through the forest,
Sought for bird or beast and found none,—
Saw no track of deer or rabbit;
In the snow beheld no foot-prints;
In the ghastly gleaming forest
Fell, and could not rise from weakness,
Perished there from cold and hunger.
Oh the famine and the fever!
Oh the wasting of the famine!
Oh the blasting of the fever!
Oh the wailing of the children!
Oh the anguish of the women!
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them,
Hungry was the sky above them,
And the hungry stars in heaven,
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,—
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine,
Covered her with snow, like ermine;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
Longfellow.
_The Path through the Snow._
Bare and sunshiny, bright and bleak,
Rounded cold as a dead maid’s cheek,
Folded white as a sinner’s shroud,
Or wandering angel’s robes of cloud,—
Well I know, well I know,
Over the fields the path through the snow.
Narrow and rough it lies between
Wastes where the wind sweeps, biting keen;
Every step of the slippery road
Tracks where some weary foot has trod;
Who will go, who will go,
After the rest, on the path through the snow?
They who would tread it must walk alone,
Silent and steadfast, one by one;
Dearest to dearest can only say,
“My heart! I’ll follow thee all the way,
As we go, as we go,
Each after each on this path through the snow.”
It may be under that western haze
Lurks the omen of brighter days;
That each sentinel tree is quivering
Deep at its core with the sap of spring;
And while we go, while we go,
Green grass-blades pierce through the glittering snow.
It may be the unknown path will tend
Never to any earthly end,—
Die with the dying day obscure,
And never lead to a human door;
That none may know who did go
Patiently once on this path through the snow.
No matter, no matter! the path shines plain;
These pure snow-crystals will deaden pain;
Above, like stars in the deep blue dark,
Eyes that love us look down and mark.
Let us go, let us go,
Whither Heaven leads in the path through the snow!
Miss Muloch.
_December Snow._
Fall thickly on the rose-bush,
O faintly falling snow!
For she is gone who trained its branch,
And wooed its bud to blow.
Cover the well-known pathway,
O damp December snow!
Her step no longer lingers there,
When stars begin to glow.
Melt in the rapid river,
O cold and cheerless snow!
She sees no more its sudden wave,
Nor hears its foaming flow.
Chill every song-bird’s music,
O silent, sullen snow!
I can not hear her loving voice,
That lulled me long ago.
Sleep on the earth’s broad bosom,
O weary winter snow!
Its fragrant flowers and blithesome birds
Should with its loved one go.
W. B. Glazier.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]