What pitched battles worthy to be chanted in Homericstrains！ What storming of fortresses built all of massivesnow-blocks！ What feats of individual prowess andembodied onsets of martial enthusiasm！ And when somewell-contested and decisive victory had put a period to thewar， both armies should unite to build a lofty monumentof snow upon the battlefield and crown it with the victor’sstatue hewn of the same frozen marble. In a few days orweeks thereafter the passer-by would observe a shapelessmound upon the level common， and， unmindful of thefamous victory， would ask， “How came it there？ Whoreared it？ And what means it？” The shattered pedestal ofmany a battle-monument has provoked these questionswhen none could answer.
Turn we again to the fireside and sit musing there，lending our ears to the wind till perhaps it shall seemlike an articulate voice and dictate wild and airy matterfor the pen. Would it might inspire me to sketch out thepersonification of a New England winter！ And that idea， ifI can seize the snow-wreathed figures that flit before myfancy， shall be the theme of the next page.
How does Winter herald his approach？ By the shriekingblast of latter autumn which is Nature’s cry of lamentationas the destroyer rushes among the shivering groveswhere she has lingered and scatters the sear leaves uponthe tempest. When that cry is heard， the people wrapthemselves in cloaks and shake their heads disconsolately，saying， “Winter is at hand.” Then the axe of thewoodcutter echoes sharp and diligently in the forest； thenthe coal-merchants rejoice because each shriek of Naturein her agony adds something to the price of coal perton； then the peat-smoke spreads its aromatic fragrancethrough the atmosphere. A few days more， and at eventidethe children look out of the window and dimly perceivethe flaunting of a snowy mantle in the air. It is sternWinter’s vesture. They crowd around the hearth and clingto their mother’s gown or press between their father’sknees， affrighted by the hollow roaring voice that bellowsadown the wide flue of the chimney.
It is the voice of Winter； and when parents and childrenhear it， they shudder and exclaim， “Winter is come. ColdWinter has begun his reign already.” Now throughoutNew England each hearth becomes an altar sending upthe smoke of a continued sacrifice to the immitigabledeity who tyrannizes over forest， country-side and town.
Wrapped in his white mantle， his staff a huge icicle， hisbeard and hair a wind-tossed snowdrift， he travels overthe land in the midst of the northern blast， and woe to thehomeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path！ There helies stark and stiff， a human shape of ice， on the spot whereWinter overtook him. On strides the tyrant over therushing rivers and broad lakes， which turn to rock beneathhis footsteps. His dreary empire is established； all aroundstretches the desolation of the pole. Yet not ungrateful behis New England children （for Winter is our sire， thougha stern and rough one） —not ungrateful even for theseverities which have nourished our unyielding strength ofcharacter. And let us thank him， too， for the sleigh-ridescheered by the music of merry bells； for the crackling andrustling hearth when the ruddy firelight gleams on hardymanhood and the blooming cheek of woman： for all thehome-enjoyments and the kindred virtues which flourishin a frozen soil. Not that we grieve when， after someseven months of storm and bitter frost， Spring， in theguise of a flower-crowned virgin， is seen driving away thehoary despot， pelting him with violets by the handful andstrewing green grass on the path behind him. Often ere hewill give up his empire old Winter rushes fiercely buck andhurls a snowdrift at the shrinking form of Spring， yet stepby step he is compelled to retreat northward， and spendsthe summer month within the Arctic circle.
Such fantasies， intermixed among graver toils of mind，have made the winter’s day pass pleasantly. Meanwhile， thestorm has raged without abatement， and now， as the briefafternoon declines， is tossing denser volumes to and froabout the atmosphere. On the window-sill there is a layerof snow reaching halfway up the lowest pane of glass. Thegarden is one unbroken bed. Along the street are two orthree spots of uncovered earth where the gust has whirledaway the snow， heaping it elsewhere to the fence-tops orpiling huge banks against the doors of houses. A solitarypassenger is seen， now striding mid-leg deep across a drift，now scudding over the bare ground， while his cloak isswollen with the wind. And now the jingling of bells—asluggish sound responsive to the horse’s toilsome progressthrough the unbroken drifts—announces the passage ofa sleigh with a boy clinging behind and ducking his headto escape detection by the driver. Next comes a sledgeladen with wood for some unthrifty housekeeper whomwinter has surprised at a cold hearth. But what dismalequipage now struggles along the uneven street？ A sablehearse bestrewn with snow is bearing a dead man throughthe storm to his frozen bed. Oh how dreary is a burial inwinter， when the bosom of Mother Earth has no warmthfor her poor child！
Evening—the early eve of December—begins to spreadits deepening veil over the comfortless scene. The firelightgradually brightens and throws my flickering shadow uponthe walls and ceiling of the chamber， but still the stormrages and rattles against the windows. Alas！ I shiver andthink it time to be disconsolate， but， taking a farewellglance at dead Nature in her shroud， I perceive a flock ofsnowbirds skimming lightsomely through the tempest andflitting from drift to drift as sportively as swallows in thedelightful prime of summer. Whence come they？ Wheredo they build their nests and seek their food？ Why， havingairy wings， do they not follow summer around the earth，instead of making themselves the playmates of the stormand fluttering on the dreary verge of the winter’s eve？ Iknow not whence they come， nor why； yet my spirit hasbeen cheered by that wandering flock of snow-birds.
