delicate tracery of winter.

Our climate is so happy, that even in the worst months of the year, "calm
mornings of sunshine visit us at times, appearing like glimpses of
departed spring amid the wilderness of wet and windy days that lead to
winter. It is pleasant, when these interludes of silver light occur, to
ride into the woods and see how wonderful are all the colors of decay.
Overhead, the elms and chestnuts hang their wealth of golden leaves, while
the beeches darken into russet tones, and the wild cherry glows like
blood-red wine. In the hedges crimson haws and scarlet hips are wreathed
with hoary clematis or necklaces of coral briony-berries; the brambles
burn with many-colored flames; the dog-wood is bronzed to purple; and here
and there the spindle-wood puts forth its fruit, like knots of rosy buds,
on delicate frail twigs. Underneath lie fallen leaves, and the brown brake
rises to our knees as we thread the forest paths." [3]

Nay, every day gives us a succession of glorious pictures in never-ending
variety. It is remarkable how few people seem to derive any pleasure from
the beauty of the sky. Gray, after describing a sunrise--how it began with
a slight whitening, just tinged with gold and blue, lit up all at once by
a little line of insufferable brightness which rapidly grew to half an
orb, and so to a whole one too glorious to be distinctly seen--adds, "I
wonder whether any one ever saw it before. I hardly believe it." [4]

No doubt from the dawn of poetry, the splendors of the morning and evening
skies have delighted all those who have eyes to see. But we are especially
indebted to Ruskin for enabling us more vividly to realize these glorious
sky pictures. As he says, in language almost as brilliant as the sky
itself, the whole heaven, "from the zenith to the horizon, becomes one
molten, mantling sea of color and fire; every block bar turns into massy