FullReads

Now they gained a whole series of fresh impressions. Right in front of them stood an old pine-tree, half prostrated in the struggle of life; but was he not dreaming, here in the winter, the loveliest of all dreams, that he was young again? In the joyous growth of this snow-white glory he had forgotten all pain and decay, forgotten the moss on his bark, the rottenness of his roots was concealed. A rickety gate had been taken from its place and was propped against the fence, broken and useless. The artist hand of winter had sought it out too, and glorified it, and it was now an architectural masterpiece. The slanting black gate-posts were a couple of young dandies, with hats on one side and jaunty air. The old, grey, mossy rails–one could not imagine Paradise within a more beautiful enclosure. Their blemishes had in this resurrection become their greatest beauty. Their knots and crannies were the chief building ground for the snow, each hole filled up by a donation of heavenly crystals from the clouds. Their disfiguring splinters were now covered and kissed, shrouded and decorated; all blemishes were obliterated in the universal whiteness. A tumbledown moss-grown hut by the roadside–now more extravagantly adorned than the richest bride in the world, covered over from heaven’s own lap in such abundance that the white snow wreaths hung half a yard beyond the roof; in some places folded back with consummate art. The grey-black wall under the snow wreaths looked like an old Persian fabric. It seemed ready to appear in a Shakespearean drama. The background of mountains and hills gleamed in the sunlight.

In the midst of all this Ella seemed to hear two little cries of “Mamma, mamma!” When she looked round for her companion he was sitting on the sledge, quite overcome, while tears flowed down his cheeks.

They drove on again, but slowly. “I remember this muddy road,” said he; his voice sounded very sad. “The trees shaded it so that it was hardly ever dry, but now it is beautiful.”

She turned and raised her head towards him. “Ah! sing a little,” she said.

He did not answer at once, and she regretted that she had asked him; at length he said:

“I was thinking of it, but I became so agitated; do not speak for a moment and then perhaps I can–the old winter song, that is to say.”

She understood that he could not do so until he completely realised it. These silent enthusiasts were indeed fastidious about what was genuine. Most things were not genuine enough for them. That is why they are so prone to intoxicate themselves; they wish to get away, to form a world for themselves. Yes, now he sang:

In winter’s arms doth summer sleep
By winter covered calm she lay,
“Still!” he cried to the river’s play,
To farm, and field and mountain steep.
Silence reigns o’er hill and dale,
No sound at home save ringing flail.

All that summer loved to see
Till she returns sleeps safely on.
In needed rest, the summer gone,
Sleep water, meadow-grass and tree,
Hid like the kernel in the nut
The earth lies crumbling round each root.

All the ills which summer knew,
Pest and blight for life and fruit
Winter’s hosts have put to rout.
In peace she shall awake again
Purified by winds and snows,
Peace shall greet her as she goes.

A lovely dream has winter strown
On the sleeping mountain height;
Star high, pale in northern light,
From sight to sight it bears her on
Through the long, long hours of night,
Till she wakes shall be her flight.

He who we say brings naught but pain
Lives but for that he ne’er shall see.
He who is called a murderer, he
Preserves each year our land again,
Then hides himself by crag and hill
Till evening’s breeze again blows chill.