CONCORD, January 23, 1840.
DEAR SISTER,--There is a huge snow-drift at the door, and the cold
inside is intolerable. The very sky is coming down, I guess, and
covering up the ground. I turn out late in the morning, and go to bed
early; there is thick frost on the windows, shutting out the view; and
here I write in pain, for fingers and brains are numb. I would chant
with Horace, if my voice did not stick in my throat,--
See how Naushawtuct, deep in snow,
Stands glittering, while the bending woods
Scarce bear their burden, and the floods
Feel arctic winter stay their flow.
Pile on the firewood, melt the cold,
Spare nothing, etc.