That ride was one to be remembered.  The air was crisp and clear.  Just snow enough had fallen in the night to cover every black and noisome thing, as though all nature’s sins were washed away by her Sabbath repentance, and she had commenced her life afresh.  There was luxury in every inhalation of the pure air.  The horse, more impatient than we, could scarcely wait for leave to go, and needed no word thereafter to quicken his flying feet.  Down the hill, with merry ringing bells, ever and anon showered with flying snow from the horse’s hoof; through the village street with a nod of recognition to Deacon Goodsole, who stood at his door to wave us a cheery recognition; round the corner with a whirl that threatens to deposit us in the soft snow and leave the horse with an empty sleigh; across the bridge, which spans the creek; up, with unabated speed, the little hill on the other side; across the railroad track, with real commiseration for the travelers who are trotting up and down the platform waiting for the train, and must exchange the joyous freedom of this day for the treadmill of the city, this air for that smoke and gas, this clean pure mantle of snow for that fresh accumulation of sooty sloshy filth; pass the school-house, where the gathering scholars stand, snowballs in hand, to see us run merily by, one urchin, more mischievous than the rest, sending a ball whizzing after us; up, up, up the mountain road, for half a mile, past farm-houses whose curling smoke tell of great blazing fires within; past ricks of hay all robed in white, and one ghost of a last summer’s scare-crow watching still, though the corn is long since in-gathered and the crows have long since flown to warmer climes; turning off, at last, from the highway into Squire Wheaton’s wood road, where, since the last fall of snow, nothing has been before us, save a solitary rabbit whose track our dog Jip follows excitedly, till he is quite out of sight or even call.

Here we are at last.  And here the evergeens are about us in a profusion which would make the eyes water of my honest friend the Dutch grocer who supplied me with my family trees so many years in New York.  Our smoking nag is over his impatience now, and, being well blanketed, understands what is wanted of him quite as well as if he were tied, and stands as still as if he were Squire Slowgoes’ fat and lazy “family horse.”  With pants tied snugly over our topboots to keep out the intruding snow, we plunge into the woods.  The ringing blows of our hatchets on the cedar-trees bring down a mimic shower on our heads and backs.  Young Wheaton understands his business, and shows me how the fairest evergreens are hid beneath the snow, and what rare forms of crystalline beauty conceal themselves altogether beneath this white counterpane.  So, sometimes cutting from above and sometimes grubbing from below, we work an hour or more, till our pung is filled to its brim.  Long before we have finished Jip has returned from his useless search, and the neighing horse indicates his impatience to be off again.