ally foreign. He thoroughly enjoys country
loitering, and when he gets a hint of anything interesting or new
going on among the birds and little creatures of the fields, he likes
to stop and investigate. His ears are remarkably quick and his eyes
and sense of smell phenomenally acute, and much which to most of us
would be unperceived or meaningless he reads as if it were an open
book. Best of all, he has the power of imparting his enjoyment, and
what he writes is full of outdoor fragrance, racy, piquant, and
individual. His snap and vivacity are wholly unartificial. They are a
part of the man--a man full of imagination and sensitiveness, a
philosopher, a humorist, a hater of shams and pretension. The tenor of
his life changes little from year to year, his affections remain
steadfast, and this hardy, gray poet of things rural will continue, as
ever, the warm-hearted nature enthusiast, and inspirer of the love of
nature in others.

A YEAR IN THE FIELDS

I

A SNOW-STORM

That is a striking line with which Emerson opens his beautiful poem of
the Snow-Storm:--

"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight."

One seems to see the clouds puffing their cheeks as they sound the
charge of their white legions. But the line is more accurately
descriptive of a rain-storm, as, in both summer and winter, rain is
usually preceded by wind. Homer, describing a snow-storm in his time,
says:--

"The winds are lulled."

[Illustration: TRACKS IN THE SNOW]

The preparations of a snow-storm are, as a rule, gentle and quiet; a
marked hush pervades both the earth and the sky. The movements of the
celestial forces are muffled, as if the snow already paved the way of
their coming. There is no uproar, no clashing of arms, no blowing of
wind trumpets. These soft, feathery, exquisite crystals are formed as
if in the silence and privacy of the inner cloud-chambers. Rude winds
would break the spell and mar the process. The clouds are smoother,
and slower in their movements, with less definite outlines than those
which bring rain. In fact, everything is prophetic of the gentle and
noiseless meteor that is approaching, and of the stillness that is to
succeed it, when "all the batteries of sound are spiked," as Lowell
says, and "we see the movements of life as a