Concord, January 23, 1840.
Dear Sister,—There is a huge snow-drift at the door, and the cold inside is intolerable. The very sky is coming down, I guess, and covering up the ground. I turn out late in the morning, and go to bed early; there is thick frost on the windows, shutting out the view; and here I write in pain, for fingers and brains are numb. I would chant with Horace, if my voice did not stick in my throat,—
See how Naushawtuct, deep in snow,
Stands glittering, while the bending woods
Scarce bear their burden, and the floods
Feel arctic winter stay their flow.
Pile on the firewood, melt the cold,
Spare nothing, etc.
But soon, changing my tune, and with a cheerfuller note, I'll say,—
No longer the flock huddles up in the stall, the plowman bends over the fire,