Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In diamond beads-and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,

By the light of the moon were seen

Most beautiful things;-there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities with temples and towers, and these
All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare-
"Now just to set them a thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."
MISS GOULD.

A WINTER PICTURE.

HOAR FROST.

What dream of beauty ever equalled this!
What bands of fairyland have sallied forth,
With all the foliage of the abundant north,
With imagery from the realms of bliss!
What visions of my boyhood do I miss

That here are not restored? All splendours pure,
All loveliness, all graces that allure-

Shapes that amaze-a paradise that is,

Yet was not, will not in few moments be.
Glory from nakedness, that playfully

Mimics, with passing life, each summer boon :
Clothing the ground, replenishing the tree;
Weaving arch, bower, and radiant festoon,
Still as a dream, and like a dream to flee.

W. HOWITT.

"At noon to-day,' January 23rd, says Miss Mitford, one of our pleasantest writers on the country, "I and my white greyhound, Mayflower, set out for a walk

into a very beautiful world-a sort of silent fairy-land-a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its colours with one sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate coating o rime.

The atmosphere was deliciously calm; soft, ever

mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air, but a stillness that might almost be felt; the sky rather grey than blue, throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village, and the rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun shining dimly as through a veil, giving a pale, fair light, like the moon, only brighter. There was a silence, too, that might become the moon, as we stood at our gate looking up the quiet street; a Sabbath-like pause of work and play, rare on a work day; nothing was audible but the pleasant hum of frost, that low, monotonous sound which is perhaps the nearest approach that life and nature can make to absolute silence. The very wagons as they came down the hill along the beaten track of crisp yellowish frost-dust, glide along like shadows; even May's bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and of speed, fall like snow

upon snow.

"These murmuring cogitations have brought us up the hill, and halfway across the light and airy common, with its bright expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages, whose turf-fires send such wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse such aromatic fragrance around. And now comes the delightful sound of childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment almost from beneath our feet. There is a shouting from the deep, irregular pool, all glass now, where on two long, smooth, slides, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping along in tottering triumph. Half a dozen steps bring us to the bank just above them. May can hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends, for most of the varlets are her acquaintance. But 'come,

May!' and up she springs as light as a bird. The road is gay now; carts and post-chaises, and girls in red cloaks, and afar off, looking almost like a toy, the coach. It meets us fast and soon. How much happier the walkers look than the riders, especially the frost-bitten gentleman, and the shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that commodious machine! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted as she is, one sees from her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered.

"Now we have reached the trees,-the beautiful trees! never so beautiful as to-day. Imagine the effect of a straight and regular double avenue of oaks, nearly a mile

A LANDSCAPE OF SNOW.

29

long, arching over head, and closing into perspective, like the roofs and columns of a cathedral, every tree and branch encrusted with the bright and delicate congelation of hoarfrost, white and pure as snow, delicate and defined as carved ivory. How beautiful it is, how uniform, how various, how filling, how satiating to the mind-above all, how melancholy! There is a thrilling awfulness, an intense feeling of simple power in that naked and colourless beauty, which falls on the earth like the thoughts of death-death, pure and glorious and smiling-but still death. Sculpture has always the same effect on my imagination, and painting never. Colour is life.

"We are now at the top of this magnificent avenue, and at the top of a steep eminence commanding a wide view over four counties-a landscape of snow. A deep lane leads abruptly down the hill; a mere narrow cart track, sinking between high banks clothed with fern and furze, and broom, crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, and famous for their summer smell of thyme. How lovely these banks are now-the tall weeds and the gorse fixed and stiffened in the hoar-frost, which fringes round the bright prickly holly, the pendant foliage of the bramble, and the deep orange-leaves of the pollard oak. Oh, this is rime in its loveliest form! And there is still a berry here and there on the holly, 'blushing in its natural coral' through the delicate tracery; still a stray hip or haw for the birds, who abound always here. The poor birds, how tame they are, how sadly tame! There is the beautiful and rare crestedwren, that shadow of a bird, as White of Selborne calls it, perched in the middle of the hedge, nestling as it were amongst the cold bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty thing, for the warmth it will not find. And there, further on, just under the bank by the slender rivulet, which still trickles between its transparent fantastic margin of thin ice, as if it were a thing of life,-there, with a swift, scudding motion, flits, in short low flights, the gorgeous king-fisher, its magnificent plumage of scarlet and blue flashing in the sun like the glories of some tropical bird. He is come for water to this little spring by the hill side,-water which even his long bill and slender head can hardly reach, so nearly do the fantastic forms of those garland-like icy margins meet

over the tiny stream beneath. It is rarely that one sees the shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant to see him in the grace and beauty of his natural liberty, the only way to look at a bird. We used, before we lived in a street, to fix a little board outside the parlour-window, and cover it with bread crumbs in the hard weather. It was quite delightful to see the pretty things come and feed, to conquer their shyness, and do away their mistrust. First came the more social tribes, the robin-redbreast and the wren, cautiously and suspiciously picking up a crumb on the wing, with the little keen bright eye fixed on the window: then they would stop for two pecks; then stay till they were satisfied. The shyer birds, tamed by their example, came next; and at last one saucy fellow of a blackbird-a sad glutton, he would clear the board in two minutes-used to tap his yellow bill against the window for more. How we loved the fearless confidence of that fine, frank-hearted creature! And surely he loved us. I wonder the practice is not more general."

THAW.

January 28th.- "We have had rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again: four days of absolute confinement. Now it is a thaw and a flood; but our light gravelly soil and country boots, and country hardihood, will carry us through. What a dripping, comfortless day it is! just like the last days of November; no sun, no sky, grey or blue; one low, overhanging, dark, dismal cloud, like London smoke. Mayflower is out coursing, too. Never mind. Never mind. Up the hill again! Walk we must. Oh, what a watery world to look back upon! Thames, Kennet, Loddon-all overflowed; our famous town, inland once, turned into a sort of Venice. C. Park converted into an island; and a long range of meadows, from B. to W., one huge, unnatural lake, with trees growing out of it. Oh, what a watery world! I will look at it no longer. I will walk on.

"The road is alive again. Noise is reborn. Wagons creak, horses splash, carts rattle, and pattens paddle through the dirt with more than their usual clink. The common has its fine old tints of green and brown, and its old