and charmed by the mountain
grandeur, but soon he pines like a caged bird. The high peaks shut him
in as a prison. He sighs for a sight of the plains, for the feeling of
room and liberty that belongs to the wider sky-reach. On the prairies
the love of truth and liberty grows as easily as the morning light.

The sun rose clear and golden and now is almost white, so clear is the
atmosphere. The snow crystals break the white light into all the
prismatic colors,--rubies and garnets, emeralds and sapphires, topaz
and amethyst, all sparkle in the brilliant light. The shadow of the
solitary elm's trunk, here on the prairie, has very clear cut edges
and is tinted with blue. The finely reticulated shadows of the
graceful twigs are sharply shadowed on the snow beneath,--a winter
picture worthy of a master hand.

In the enjoyment of such beauty as this is the only real wealth. Money
cannot buy it. Hirelings cannot take it from the lowly and give it to
the proud. No trust can corner it. No canvas can screen it from the
eye of him who has not silver to give the cathedral care-taker.
February, like June, may be had by the poorest comer. But it is like
Ruskin's Faubourg St. Germain. Before you may enjoy it you shall be
worthy of it.

_"Such beauty, varying in the light,
Of living nature, cannot be portrayed
By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill;
But is the property of him alone
Who hath beheld it, noted it with care,
And in his mind recorded it with love."_

Leave the prairie and enter the forest which crowns the neighboring
ridge. Here are more of those blue shadows on the snow. The delicate
blue sky is faintly reflected on the snow in the full sunlight, but it
is more obvious in the shadow; in some places its hue is almost
indigo. This sky reflection is one of the most beautiful of Nature's
winter exhibitions. Towards sundown the snow-capped ridges will
sometimes be tinged with pink. And in a red sunset the winter trees
will sometimes throw shadows of green, the complementary color, on the
snow.

* * * * *

You are early in the woods. Nature's children are not yet astir. The
silence is profound; but it is a fruitful, uplifting silence. There
are no sounds to strike the most delicate strings in that wondrous
harp of your inner ear. But if your spiritual ear is attentive you
should catch those forest voices that fall softer than silence and
speak of peace and puri