had stopped snuffling; and the sun was setting with a glow in the west, of which the blood in my veins felt like a rosy partaker. Slacking rein as I entered the gate, and removing a pair of "green goggles" (excellent uglinesses with which to protect weak eyes from the patter as well as the glare of the snow in riding), I became suddenly aware of a scene of extraordinary beauty. The soft and feathery snow had so completely foliaged the trees that they looked full and shady, as in June. The woods on either side had the expression of leafy impenetrableness which enchants the forever-refuge-seeking eye; the meadows and slopes were carpeted with the evenness of a lawn; and over all was spread the warm color of the kindling sunset. It was midsummer, performed in white—its burden of leaves all there, and its press and crowd of flowers inimitably copied in snowflakes. The picturesque and beautiful half mile from the river-gate to our door—over meadow and brook, and along the wooded terraces and rocky precipices of the glen—will never be more superb in summer than as I saw it—(riding alone, too, a most unwilling millionaire, to have such a wealthy of splendor all to myself)—in the middle of winter.
(What tempting subjects are these glories of Nature with no events to them—so thrilling to the beholder and so tiresome at second-hand! I have indulged this time, but give me credit for twenty resistances.)
