Dec. 26.—"The country looks just like a Christmas card," said an enthusiast of city breeding, which goes to prove the truth of Whistler's observation that "Nature is looking up." The sleighing came with Christmas and made it perfect. There had been flurries of snow before that had drifted to the hollows and fence-corners, and had given the country a sketchy, unfinished look, but on Christmas morning the fields and roads were covered several inches deep with an even layer of crisp snow. Cutters were dusted and brought out, and before noon there was a constant jingling of bells on the country roads. Ever since there has been good sleighing, and holiday visiting has been worth while, if for no other reason than the drive through the clear, cold air. Even the turkeys and mince-pies and plum-puddings seemed to taste better after an appetising outing with the thermometer at fifteen above. Since the sleighing began the towns have been crowded with visitors from the farms, who were out more for the drive than for any shopping they had to do. As a matter of fact, sleighing is now simply one of the pleasures of the country. There is no more heavy teaming to do, and really practical farmers who look at things from a business point of view would be just as well pleased if we did not have sleighing at all. As long as there is enough snow to protect the wheat they are satisfied. Sleighing makes it necessary to have sleighs and cutters instead of waggons and buggies, and that is an added expense. Thank heaven, there are still enough inconsequential people living to like sleighing just for the fun of it. They hitch up their roadsters and go out for a spin because they like to feel the exhilaration it gives. May their tribe increase.
As if not satisfied with giving us perfect winter weather, Nature started in yesterday afternoon to show what she can do, when in the mood, to make the world bewilderingly beautiful. Early in the afternoon, wisps of fog began to float across the field and the raw cold proved the truth of the old doggerel:
"A winter fog
Will freeze a dog."
As the fog floated past a fine hoarfrost began to settle everywhere and the sun went down red as in Indian summer. The straggling fog-banks on the horizon began to glow, and we said:
"The low, red rim
Of a winter's twilight, crisp and dim."
Then came an hour of darkness and when the full moon rose it lighted a fairyland. Every twig, weed, and exposed blade of grass was frosted to three times its usual thickness with feathery hoarfrost of dazzling whiteness. Only the trunks and larger limbs of the trees remained black. As the stars were blotted out by the light, all except the larger ones and a planet that hung in the west like a drop of liquid silver, the snow began to light up with infinite constellations. There was moonlight and snow "Fur's you cud look or listen." Not a breath of air disturbed the tense stillness. Presently, an owl—who, no doubt, "for all his feathers, was a-cold"—hooted in the ghostly woods and the sound boomed and echoed weirdly.
"Whoo-hoo-hoo-whoo-oo!"
It seemed the only sound that would be appropriate in that frozen stillness. As the moon rose higher a perfect storm circle that almost broke into rainbow colours formed around it. All night the spectacle lasted, but the wind that came with the dawn scattered the light frost flakes and mingled them with the drifting snow, but all who loved beauty had a chance to see the matchless artistry of
"The goblins of the Northland
That teach the gulls to scream,
That dance the autumn into dust,
The ages into dream."