be written in the form of a child’s story by describing the snow-ball fights of two rival schools, the alternate defeats and victories of each, and the final triumph of one party, or perhaps of neither!  What pitched battles worthy to be chanted in Homeric strains!  What storming of fortresses built all of massive snow-blocks!  What feats of individual prowess and embodied onsets of martial enthusiasm!  And when some well-contested and decisive victory had put a period to the war, both armies should unite to build a lofty monument of snow upon the battlefield and crown it with the victor’s statue hewn of the same frozen marble.  In a few days or weeks thereafter the passer-by would observe a shapeless mound upon the level common, and, unmindful of the famous victory, would ask, “How came it there?  Who reared it?  And what means it?” The shattered pedestal of many a battle-monument has provoked these questions when none could answer.

Turn we again to the fireside and sit musing there, lending our ears to the wind till perhaps it shall seem like an articulate voice and dictate wild and airy matter for the pen.  Would it might inspire me to sketch out the personification of a New England winter!  And that idea, if I can seize the snow-wreathed figures that flit before my fancy, shall be the theme of the next page.

How does Winter herald his approach?  By the shrieking blast of latter autumn which is Nature’s cry of lamentation as the destroyer rushes among the shivering groves where she has lingered and scatters the sear leaves upon the tempest.  When that cry is heard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks and shake their heads disconsolately, saying, “Winter is at hand.”  Then the axe of the woodcutter echoes sharp and diligently in the forest; then the coal-merchants rejoice because each shriek of Nature in her agony adds something to the price of coal per ton; then the peat-smoke spreads its aromatic fragrance through the atmosphere.  A few days more, and at eventide the children look out of the window and dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy mantle in the air.  It is stern Winter’s vesture.  They crowd around the hearth and cling to their mother’s gown or press between their father’s knees, affrighted by the hollow roaring voice that bellows adown the wide flue of the chimney.

It is the voice of Winter; and when parents and children hear it, they shudder and exclaim, “Winter is come.  Cold Winter has begun his reign already.”  Now throughout New England each hearth becomes an altar sending up the smoke of a continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tyrannizes over forest, country-side and town.  Wrapped in his white mantle, his staff a huge icicle, his beard and hair a wind-tossed snowdrift, he travels over the land in the midst of the northern blast, and woe to the homeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path!  There he lies stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, on the spot where Winter overtook him.  On strides the tyrant over the rushing rivers