He who marvels at the beauty of the world in summer will find equal
cause for wonder and admiration in winter. It is true the pomp and
the pageantry are swept away, but the essential elements
remain,--the day and the night, the mountain and the valley, the
elemental play and succession and the perpetual presence of the
infinite sky. In winter the stars seem to have rekindled their
fires, the moon achieves a fuller triumph, and the heavens wear a
look of a more exalted simplicity. Summer is more wooing and
seductive, more versatile and human, appeals to the affections and
the sentiments, and fosters inquiry and the art impulse. Winter is
of a more heroic cast, and addresses the intellect. The severe
studies and disciplines come easier in winter. One imposes larger
tasks upon himself, and is less tolerant of his own weaknesses.

The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the
bone and sinew to Literature, summer the tissues and blood.

The simplicity of winter has a deep moral. The return of nature,
after such a career of splendor and prodigality, to habits so simple
and austere, is not lost either upon the head or the heart. It is
the philosopher coming back from the banquet and the wine to a cup
of water and a crust of bread.

And then this beautiful masquerade of the elements,--the novel
disguises our nearest friends put on! Here is another rain and
another dew, water that will not flow, nor spill, nor receive the
taint of an unclean vessel. And if we see truly, the same old
beneficence and willingness to serve lurk beneath all.