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By CLIFTON JOHNSON

With Illustrations by the Author

HE charm of the changing seasons of our northeastern corner of the United States is widely celebrated. The shifting pageant from month to month, and even the variations and uncertainties from day to day, are not without pleasure-giving stimulus; but if there is any portion of the year that is open to doubt it is the winter. By many its frosty vigor is regarded with critical disapproval, and in recollection of the strenuous rigors of this one season our New England year is sometimes described as consisting of "six months winter and the rest late in the fall."

"Yes," said an old native of our western Massachusetts hills to me, "the winter here is a leetle too cold."

He was a cautious man and expressed himself mildly. But another hill-towner who was not of this cautious type declared that the New Englanders "spend half their time wishing it wa'n't such blessed cold weather."

Probably all of us have heard numerous shining comments on our winter that are far from respectful, and I propose in what follows to appeal to the facts to see if such criticisms are justified. Is it an imprisoning and dreary season, devastating and frightful in its savagery, and with frozen

fields and woodlands devoid of life and beauty; or is there much to delight the unbiased person in its crystalline storms and white landscapes, and even in its rude onsets of cold and wind? What has Emerson to say? What sentiments do Whittier, and Longfellow, and the others express?

Emerson found good in all of nature's ways, and it is perhaps to be expected that he would take a cheerful view of winter. Yet he was essentially a man of the study, and that he should be wholly in love with the frigid months was scarcely possible. The point he most emphasizes in his winter poems is this fact, that though the outdoor world may be storm-enveloped, and wind and flying flakes roughly buffet those who brave the tumult, and assail the dwellings with gusty violence, this only serves to make the indoor world seem the more snug. His "Snow Storm" illustrates this theme effectively:

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heavens,

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And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Strictly speaking, the first line is not. truly descriptive of a snow storm, for the beginnings of such a storm are very sure to be stealthy and quiet, and the storm certainly is not announced by "all the trumpets of the sky." But the picture of the whirl of white flakes in contrast with the cheer of the warm fireside is wholly delightful.

After the storm has spent itself the reader is bidden to

Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry * * * *** the fierce artificer

Carves his white bastions with projected roof

Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.

And when his hours are numbered *** Leaves * * * astonished art

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,

Built in an age, the mad wind's nightwork,

The frolic architecture of the snow.

In his poem entitled "May-Day," Emerson paints winter in darker tones, but it might reasonably be inferred that this was chiefly for the purpose of giving his spring theme a more impressive setting. He recalls that in winter

All was stiff and stark;

Knee-deep snows choked all the ways. Firm-braced I sought my ancient woods,

Struggling through the drifted roads;
The whited desert knew me not,
Snow-ridges masked each darling spot.
Eldest mason, Frost, had piled
Swift cathedrals in the wild;

The piney hosts were sheeted ghosts

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In the star-lit minster aisled.

I found no joy; the icy wind
Might rule the forest to his mind..
Who would freeze on frozen lakes?
Back to books and sheltered home,
And wood-fire flickering on the walls,
To hear, when, 'mid our talk and games,
Without the baffled North-wind calls.

It would seem that the beauty of winter appealed to him most when contemplated in the cozy warmth of his home. He was not physically robust enough to enjoy contending with its strenuous winds and frosts in the open. This we see evidenced again in "The Titmouse," where he says:

You shall not be overbold

When you deal with Arctic cold,
As late I found my lukewarm blood
Chilled wading in the snow-choked
wood.

How should I fight? My foeman fine
Has million arms to one of mine.

The poet even has doubts as to whether he can reach his home three miles distant.

The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, Sings in my ears, my hands are stones.

But while he was contemplating the possibility of the snow becoming his "shroud" there

* piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chic-a-dee-dec! saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, "Good day, good sir! Fine afternoon, old passenger! Happy to meet you in these places, When January brings few faces."

The little bird flits about fearlessly, familiar and vigorously cheerful, and the poet exclaims,

Here was this atom in full breath
Hurling defiance at vast death.

He interpreted the bird's song to mean that it liked

AFTER THE STORM

"has when summer beats With stifling beams on these retreats, Than noontide twilights which snow makes

With tempest of the blinding flakes.
For well the soul, if stout within,

Can arm impregnably the skin."

Another writer who brings the chic

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adee into a winter poem is J. T. Trowbadge. He expresses himself in milder ven than Emerson, yet with a good deal of charm, when he says:

*** cheerily the chick-a-dee
Singeth to me on fence and tree;
The snow sails round him as he sings,
White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the snow flakes as they fall
On bank and brier and broken wall;
Over the orchard, waste and brown,
All noiselessly they settle down.

To the poet the storm was gently pleasurable, and I have no doubt that his genial and sympathetic nature. found in winter, as well as in the other seasons, much of good.

bit

of winter in Longfellow is this from

I block the roads, and drift the fields

I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen My frosts congeal the rivers in their

My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.

In nearly all he wrote Longfellow is wholesome and inspiring, but his verse is not without touches of sadness and mild melancholy, and he often sings of nature in a minor key. It is no wonder, then, if we sometimes find him picturing winter in a rather somber aspect. He is especially dubious in these verses from "Afternoon in February":

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows,

Slowly passes a funeral train.

His description of "the long and dreary winter" in "Hiawatha" is no less depressing, but there winter is naturally sober hued because of the famine. that stalks through the land. Again, in "The Wreck of the Hesperus," the subject of the poem makes it no surprise that winter should be presented as more a foe than a friend. With such a topic, however, as the "Woods in Winter," we would expect something radically different in tone, yet the poet delivers himself with considerable uncer

tainty, and we have touches of both Along the dreary landscape gloom and brightness.

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His eyes went to and fro, The trees all clad in icicles,

The streams that did not flow.

What the poet's own feeling was as to winter is left uncertain; for the character of the human element in the poem accounts for the melancholy setting.

To Bryant we would look for a much more definite expression. He had a profound affection for his native hills. in western Massachusetts, and there was a ruggedness in his personality that put him in sympathy with the rugged in nature. His view is sober, but not gloomy, in spite of the fact that the country he loved would impress most with a sense of vast loneliness, especially when the great heaving hills are

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