XIV


When David awoke late and drowsily the next morning after the
storm, he lay awhile, listening. No rending, crashing, booming in
the woods now, nor rattling of his window-frames. No contemplative
twitter of winter birds about the cedars in the yard, nor caw of
crow, crossing the house chimneys toward the corn shocks. All
things hushed, silent, immovable.

Following so quickly upon the sublime roar and ravage of the night
before, the stillness was disturbing. He sprang up and dressed
quickly--admonished by the coldness of his room--before hurrying to
his window to look out. When he tried the sash, it could not be
raised. He thrust his hand through the broken pane and tugged at
the shutters; they could not be shaken. Running downstairs to the
kitchen and returning with hot water, he melted away the ice
embedding the bolts and hinges.

A marvel of nature, terrible, beautiful, met his eyes: ice-rain and
a great frost Cloud, heavy still, but thinner than on the day
before, enwrapped the earth. The sun, descending through this
translucent roof of gray, filled the air beneath with a radiance as
of molten pearl; and in this under-atmosphere of pearl all earthly
things were tipped and hung in silver. Tree, bush, and shrub in the
yard below, the rose clambering the pillars of the porch under his
window, the scant ivy lower down on the house wall, the stiff
little junipers, every blade of grass--all encased in silver. The
ruined cedars trailed from sparlike tops their sweeping sails of
incrusted emerald and silver. Along the eaves, like a row of