Now I had not seen a snow-storm since I was eighteen months old, and of course remembered nothing about it.  A boy familiar from his infancy with the rigors of our New England winters can form no idea of the impression made on me by this natural phenomenon.  My delight and surprise were as boundless as if the heavy gray sky had let down a shower of pond lilies and white roses, instead of snow-flakes.  It happened to be a half-holiday, so I had nothing to do but watch the feathery crystals whirling hither and thither through the air.  I stood by the sitting-room window gazing at the wonder until twilight shut out the novel scene.

We had had several slight flurries of hail and snow before, but this was a regular nor’easter.

Several inches of snow had already fallen.  The rose-bushes at the door drooped with the weight of their magical blossoms, and the two posts that held the garden gate were transformed into stately Turks, with white turbans, guarding the entrance to the Nutter House.

The storm increased at sundown, and continued with unabated violence through the night.  The next morning, when I jumped out of bed, the sun was shining brightly, the cloudless heavens wore the tender azure of June, and the whole earth lay muffled up to the eyes, as it were, in a thick mantle of milk-white down.

It was a very deep snow.  The Oldest Inhabitant (what would become of a New England town or village without its oldest Inhabitant?) overhauled his almanacs, and pronounced it the deepest snow we had had for twenty years.  It couldn’t have been much deeper without smothering us all.  Our street was a sight to be seen, or, rather, it was a sight not to be seen; for very little street was visible.  One huge drift completely banked up our front door and half covered my bedroom window.

There was no school that day, for all the thoroughfares were impassable.  By twelve o’clock, however, the great snowploughs, each drawn by four yokes of oxen, broke a wagon-path through the principal streets; but the foot-passengers had a hard time of it floundering in the arctic drifts.

The Captain and I cut a tunnel, three feet wide and six feet high, from our front door to the sidewalk opposite.  It was a beautiful cavern, with its walls and roof inlaid with mother-of-pearl and diamonds.  I am sure the ice palace of the Russian Empress, in Cowper’s poem, was not a more superb piece of architecture.

The thermometer began falling shortly before sunset and we had the bitterest cold night I ever experienced.  This brought out the Oldest Inhabitant again the next day—­and what a gay old boy he was for deciding everything!  Our tunnel was turned into solid ice.  A crust thick enough to bear men and horses had formed over the snow everywhere, and the air was alive with merry sleigh-bells.  Icy stalactites, a yard long, bung from the eaves of the house, and the Turkish sentinels at the gate looked as if they had given up all hopes of ever being relieved from duty.