We sleep， and at length awake to the still reality of a winter morning. The snow lies warm as cotton or down upon the window sill； the broadened sash and frosted panes admit a dim and private light， which enhances the snug cheer within. The stillness of the morning is impressive. The floor creaks under our feet as we move toward the window to look abroad through some clear space over the fields， we see the roofs stand under their snow burden. From the eaves and fences hang stalactites of snow， and in the yard stand stalagmites covering some concealed core. The trees and shrubs rear white arms to the sky on every side； and where were walls and fences， we see fantastic forms stretching in frolic gambols across the dusky landscape， as if Nature had strewn her fresh designs over the fields by night as models for man’ s art.
Silently we unlatch the door， letting the drift fall in， and step abroad to face the cutting air. Already the stars have lost some of their sparkle， and a dull， leaden mist skirts the horizon. A lurid brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day， while the western landscape is dim and spectral still， and clothed in a somber Tartarean light， like the shadowy realms. They are infernal sounds only that you hear—the crowing of cocks， the barking of dogs， the chopping of wood， the lowing of kine， all seem to come from Pluto’ s barnyard and beyond the Styx—not for any melancholy they suggest， but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent tracks of the fox or otter， in the yard， remind us that each hour of the night is crowded with events， and the primeval nature is still working and making tracks in the snow. Opening the gate， we tread briskly along the lone country road， crunching the dry and crisped snow under our feet， or aroused by the sharp， clear creak of the wood sled， just starting for the distant market， from the early farmer’s door， where it has lain the summer long， dreaming amid the chips and stubble； while far through the drifts and powdered windows we see the farmer’ s early candle， like a paled star， emitting a lonely beam， as if some severe virtue were at its matins there. And one by one the smokes begin to ascend from the chimneys amid the trees and snows.