Such fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of mind, have made the
winter's day pass pleasantly. Meanwhile, the storm has raged without
abatement, and now, as the brief afternoon declines, is tossing denser
volumes to and fro about the atmosphere. On the window-sill, there is
a layer of snow, reaching half-way up the lowest pane of glass. The
garden is one unbroken bed. Along the street are two or three spots
of uncovered earth, where the gust has whirled away the snow, heaping
it elsewhere to the fence-tops, or piling huge banks against the doors
of houses. A solitary passenger is seen, now striding mid-leg deep
across a drift, now scudding over the bare ground, while his cloak is
swollen with the wind. And now the jingling of bells, a sluggish
sound, responsive to the horse's toilsome progress through the
unbroken drifts, announces the passage of a sleigh, with a boy
clinging behind, and ducking his head to escape detection by the
driver. Next comes a sledge, laden with wood for some unthrifty
housekeeper, whom winter has surprised at a cold hearth. But what
dismal equipage now struggles along the uneven street? A sable
hearse, bestrewn with snow, is bearing a dead man through the storm to
his frozen bed. O, how dreary is a burial in winter, when the bosom
of Mother Earth has no warmth for her poor child!

Evening--the early eve of December--begins to spread its deepening
veil over the comfortless scene; the firelight gradually brightens,
and throws my flickering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the
chamber; but still the storm rages and rattles, against the windows.
Alas! I shiver, and think it time to be disconsolate. But, taking a
farewell glance at dead Nature in her shroud, I perceive a flock of
snow-birds, skimming lightsomely through the tempest, and flitting
from drift to drift, as sportively as swallows in the delightful prime
of summer. Whence come they? Where do they build their nests, and