Poussette, lying crumpled up in a reclining chair, watched his new friend with dawning reason and admiration.
"Fonny things happens," said he, wagging his head, "I'll go to sleep
now and wake up—just in time—you'll see—to go to church, help Mr.
Ringfield take roun' the money—oh—I'll show you, I'll show you, Miss
Cordova."
"You'll show me, will you?" said the barkeeper, absently. "What'll you do if he don't come at all? He can't come now, and you know it."
"I tell you—fonny things happens! I'll preach myself, read from the
Bible, sure."
CHAPTER XXVI
THE GLISSADE
"The calm oblivious tendencies of nature."
Probably the most beautiful spectacle ever afforded by the natural world is that of a complete and far-reaching ice-storm, locally known as a glissade, transcending in delicate aerial fantasy the swiftly changing faint green panorama of early spring or the amber hazes of opulent autumn. A true and perfect glissade is comparatively rare; like a fine display of the auroral arches, another wonder in the visible universe, or the vast expanding and nobly symbolical rainbow, it does not often occur, nor when it does, is it always a spectacle of permanence as well as beauty. The conditions under which it develops may frequently exist in the upper atmosphere, but to ensure the magical and lovely effects which so singularly transform the plainest landscape, these conditions must remain unchanged for a certain length of time in order that the work of crystallization may be thoroughly carried out. The movements and fluctuating currents of the air do not often long maintain this tranquil and stationary poise, and consequently we may sometimes witness attempts on the part of Nature to create these distinctive and wondrous results which are quickly doomed to thaw and oblivion. In the next place it follows that what we see so seldom must greatly impress us because of its unfamiliarity and from the fact that its evanescence renders its loveliness more precious; the element of surprise increases our enjoyment, and all the more since the materials in use are the oldest and most familiar in the world. Then, to crown the work, there is not at any other season of the year or during any variation of a winter climate, anything more soothing, entrancing, more grateful and refreshing than the texture of the air itself, the feeling of the air during the period of suspended atmospheric action. It is not joyous, but it is better than joy. There is nothing violent, nothing extreme; there is no dust, no flurry, no glare. It is not cold but only pleasantly, smoothly cool, and the final impression is one of temporary transportation to some calm celestial region of infinite peace and purity.
Standing at the left of Poussette's church on the brink of the Fall, the eye, on the Monday following Crabbe's ignominious return, would have rested lovingly upon such a scene of enchantment. The great triple ledges of water which formed the cascade were only partially frozen, and the spray, still dashing in parts against the rocks and bare branches standing around them, seemed to congeal in mid-air, while the tall pines spreading on either hand were bending from their normal by weight of icy trappings. So much for the general effect—of a soft yet crystalline whiteness covering and outlining every object—but in detail, what a marvel of delicate tracery, what a miracle of intricate interlacing of frosted boughs! Every twig was encased in a transparent cylinder of flashing ice, every hillock crusted over with freshly fallen snow; the evergreens, in shape like giant algae, drooped wide fans to the earth, painted, spangled, and embroidered with glittering encrustations; the wires across the river from Bois Clair to Montmagny were harps of shining silver strings, the rough fences turned to graceful arabesques, the houses changed to domes and turrets and battlements of marble.
The sun was veiled as yet, but occasionally from behind the greyish-white of a cloudless spreading sky a pale yellow gleam stole forth, creating fires of prismatic rose and violet in each glassy twig and leaf. At these times, too, there woke and stirred a faint, faint wind, almost a warm wind, and then, here and there, a little cushion or mat or flag of snow would fall, or an icy stem break off. The silence was absolute, animal life appeared suspended, the squirrels no longer ran chattering in quest of food, as on mild days they will near habitations, no bird was seen or heard. This state of coma or trance held all created things, and as with most Canadian scenery, small chance was there for sentiment; the shepherd of the Lake country or the mountaineer of Switzerland were not represented by any picturesque figure, although small spirals of smoke floated up from the straggling settlements, and a habitant wife sometimes looked out from a door or a window, her face dark and shrivelled for the most part, and with clumsy woollen wraps thrown around head and shoulders.