The next day is blue, breathless, and most utterly still.  The farmers shovel a way to their beasts, bind with chains their large ploughshares to their heaviest wood-sled and take of oxen as many as Allah has given them.  These they drive, and the dragging share makes a furrow in which a horse can walk, and the oxen, by force of repeatedly going in up to their bellies, presently find foothold.  The finished road is a deep double gutter between three-foot walls of snow, where, by custom, the heavier vehicle has the right of way.  The lighter man when he turns out must drop waist-deep and haul his unwilling beast into the drift, leaving Providence to steady the sleigh.

In the towns, where they choke and sputter and gasp, the big snow turns to horsepondine.  With us it stays still:  but wind, sun, and rain get to work upon it, lest the texture and colour should not change daily.  Rain makes a granulated crust over all, in which white shagreen the trees are faintly reflected.  Heavy mists go up and down, and create a sort of mirage, till they settle and pack round the iron-tipped hills, and then you know how the moon must look to an inhabitant of it.  At twilight, again, the beaten-down ridges and laps and folds of the uplands take on the likeness of wet sand—­some huge and melancholy beach at the world’s end—­and when day meets night it is all goblin country.  To westward; the last of the spent day—­rust-red and pearl, illimitable levels of shore waiting for the tide to turn again.  To eastward, black night among the valleys, and on the rounded hill slopes a hard glaze that is not so much light as snail-slime from the moon.  Once or twice perhaps in the winter the Northern Lights come out between the moon and the sun, so that to the two unearthly lights is added the leap and flare of the Aurora Borealis.

In January or February come the great ice-storms, when every branch, blade, and trunk is coated with frozen rain, so that you can touch nothing truly.  The spikes of the pines are sunk into pear-shaped crystals, and each fence-post is miraculously hilted with diamonds.  If you bend a twig, the icing cracks like varnish, and a half-inch branch snaps off at the lightest tap.  If wind and sun open the day together, the eye cannot look steadily at the splendour of this jewelry.  The woods are full of the clatter of arms; the ringing of bucks’ horns in flight; the stampede of mailed feet up and down the glades; and a great dust of battle is puffed out into the open, till the last of the ice is beaten away and the cleared branches take up their regular chant.

Again the mercury drops twenty and more below zero, and the very trees swoon.  The snow turns to French chalk, squeaking under the heel, and their breath cloaks the oxen in rime.  At night a tree’s heart will break in him with a groan.  According to the books, the frost has split something, but it is a fearful sound, this grunt as of a man stunned.