father's knees, affrighted by the hollow roaring voice, that bellows
a-down the wide flue of the chimney. It is the voice of Winter; and
when parents and children bear it, they shudder and exclaim, "Winter
is come! Cold Winter has begun his reign already!" Now, throughout
New England, each hearth becomes an altar, sending up the smoke of a
continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tyrannizes over
forest, country side, and town. Wrapped in his white mantle, his
staff a huge icicle, his beard and hair a wind-tossed snow-drift, he
travels over the land, in the midst of the northern blast; and woe to
the homeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path! There he lies
stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, on the spot where Winter
overtook him. On strides the tyrant over the rushing rivers and broad
lakes, which turn to rock beneath his footsteps. His dreary empire is
established; all around stretches the desolation of the Pole. Yet not
ungrateful be his New England children,--for Winter is our sire,
though a stern and rough one,--not ungrateful even for the severities,
which have nourished our unyielding strength of character. And let us
thank him, too, for the sleigh-rides, cheered by the music of merry
bells; for the crackling and rustling hearth, when the ruddy firelight
gleams on hardy Manhood and the blooming cheek of Woman; for all the
home enjoyments, and the kindred virtues, which flourish in a frozen
soil. Not that we grieve, when, after some seven months of storm and
bitter frost, Spring, in the guise of a flower-crowned virgin, is seen
driving away the hoary despot, pelting him with violets by the
handful, and strewing green grass on the path behind him. Often, ere
he will give up his empire, old Winter rushes fiercely back, and hurls
a snow-drift at the shrinking form of Spring; yet, step by step, he is
compelled to retreat northward, and spends the summer months within
the Arctic circle.