Fig. 18. The cloud banks of a thunder storm on the horizon.
You see the storm merely as a brightly lighted and beautifully colored cloud mass in the sky; but the people over whom it is hanging find it a threatening black cloud, the source of a furious wind, a heavy rain, and the awe-inspiring lightning. To them it may not be beautiful, though grand in the extreme; and so, too, when the summer thunder shower visits you in the early evening, you may know that people to the west of you are probably looking at its side and top and admiring its beauty of form and color.
The storm passes on, still to the eastward, and finally the cloud mass entirely disappears beneath the eastern horizon; but if you watch, you will see signs that it is still there, though out of sight; for in the darkness of the night you can see the eastern horizon lighted by little flashes, the source of which cannot be seen. You call it "heat lightning," but it is really the last signal that we can see of the vanishing thunder storm, so far away that the sound of the crashing thunder cannot be heard.
You watch the mysterious flashes; they grow dimmer and dimmer and finally you see them no more. Our summer shower is gone. It has done what thousands of others have done before, and what thousands of others will do in the future. It has started, moved off, and finally disappeared from sight; and as it has gone it has told us a story. You can read a part of this story if you will; and in reading it will find much that interests.
LEAFLET VII.
A SNOW STORM.[9]
By ANNA BOTSFORD COMSTOCK.
The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down And still fluttered down the snow. —Lowell.
The storm which Lowell describes so delightfully is the first soft, gentle snow fall that comes in November or early December. "The silence deep and white" settles like a benediction over the brown, uneven landscape, and makes of it a scene of enchantment. Very different from this is the storm that comes when the winter cold is most severe and winter winds most terrific. Then the skies are as white as the fields, with never a sign of blue; if the sun appears at all, it shines cold instead of warm, and seems but a vague white spot behind the veil of upward, downward whirling snowflakes; the wild wind takes the "snow dust" in eddies across the fields and piles it at the fences in great drift billows with overhanging crests. On such a day the snow is so cold and dry, the clouds so low and oppressive, the bare trees so brown and bleak, that we shiver even though we gaze on the dreary scene from the window of a warm and comfortable room.