Flake White

IT has just fallen upon my tablets, and with it a voice saying, Write. But how to handle a subject so delicate! Surely the touch should be at once tender and cold. Even as I speak of Flake White, it is no longer called by that name, but has become vague moisture. I would dwell upon the stainless purity of the snow, but Fancy being so careless in her chemistry, the probabilities are that the chromatic unity which I seek will be decomposed ; whence violet, amber, or even rose-tinted snow may result. Then, if my experiment be accused of failure, I will summon, to be my apologist, not the snow flake, but the more ingenuous snow crystal, with the rainbow twinkle in its face.

Memorable are the verses beginning thus : —

Yet the heraldry of a snow-storm is not always to the ear, with flourish of the sky trumpets. To Jupiter Pluvius belong noisy pomp and circumstance, — the clattering chariot and the hurtling bolt; Jupiter Niveus more often walks the heavens shod with silence, gray of countenance, yet benign, softening the austere air with the gifts of his right hand. The first flakes of the year, — how doubtful, wavering, tentative, as though there were as yet no beaten path for them to follow in their journey from the clouds to earth, or as though they were unwilling to desert the goodly society of their kindred in the sky ! The blades of tender autumnal grass look very cold, lifted through the scant coverlet spread by a first snow; one shivers seeing them, and wishes that their retirement might be hastened. The wanderings of the dead leaves are brought to an end by the snow, to which they impart a stain from the coloring matter not yet leached from their tissues. By this circumstance the age of the season might be gauged, approximately; at least, the snows of the later winter suffer no such discoloration from contact with the leaf-strewn ground.

When the snow is damp and clinging, as it not unfrequently is at the beginning and end of the winter, a wonderful white springtime comes upon the earth. Behold, the orchards bloom again almost in the similitude of May; the dry stalks in the garden undergo the miracle that befell the bishop’s staff in the legend, and deck themselves with beauty. Last summer’s nests are again tenanted, brooded by doves of peace descended from heaven. Every cobweb which the wind has spared, under the eaves or in the porch, displays a fluttering increment of snow. What a deal of wool-gathering there has been ! The rough bark of the trees, the roofs and clap-boards of the houses, are hung with soft shreds and tatters ; the “ finger of heaven ” has put on a white cot. If we walk abroad in this new creation, it shall seem that we have been suddenly let into some magnified frost picture; nor can we be quite sure that we ourselves are not of the same trail, ethereal texture as the exquisite work around us, and like it destined to glide into naught, under the arrows of the sun. When such damp snow freezes upon the branches, and afterwards falls in crusted fragments, the perforations made in the snow beneath resemble the tracks of many small, cushion-footed animals; one would like to know what Æsopian council, or palaver, was held under the dooryard trees in the sly middle of the night.

There is great variety in the quality and fibre of the snow as it falls at different ternperatures, in quiet, or ceaselessly worried by the wind. “ Hail is the coldest corn,” declares an ancient rune. However that may be, by the chaff that is driven in our faces we know that they are threshing up yonder this afternoon. At some other time it is not chaff, but heavenly grain (such as the horses of the Homeric deities may have munched), that is lavishly scattered abroad. To walk upon such snow is very like attempting to walk in a bin of wheat, and a dry, craunching sound attends each footstep. Sometimes it snows not flakes, but little fasces of crystalline fagots ; sometimes, also, miniature snowballs, well packed, ready made for the sport of the invisible sprites of the storm. Again, by the fineness and softness of the flake, it appears that the old traditional goose-wife, who lives in the clouds, is plucking only the down from under the wings of her flock ; she is not so painstaking and fastidious at all times. Occasionally I am reminded that there is a lapidary in heaven, who takes the rough gem of the snow, and by secret, dexterity — cutting, polishing, and engraving — causes it to wear a thousand lovely forms and devices. Perhaps these are the

which Saturn promised there should be on his regaining the empire of the skies. Or it may be that these crystal stars and wheels, in all curious and fantastic variations, are experiments in pyrotechnics,— frozen fire-works, in which the rockets are made to take only descending curves, I sometimes please myself with imagining that when these exquisite fragments come to a common resting-place on earth, by some recondite law of attraction or correspondence they fit themselves together, point locking into angle and side matching side. Might not an ear divinely gifted detect a faint musical report when these morning stars of the snow celebrate their union ? “ And they all sing, melting as they sing, of the mysteries of the number six, six, six.” With unadvised haste the Muse gave out the following : —

But Science appears, raising the question whether the snow crystal invariably sings the song of sixes, invariably follows the law of the lily’s inflorescence. The snow which falls in these obvious crystalline patterns is of the lightest and most diaphanous quality. A broken branch lies upon the ground, completely covered with this delicate counterpane, yet every twig and bud is still plainly defined. I have a fancy that I would like to see half-blown crimson roses inclosed, but not concealed, in such a cool white shrine. The season which most regard as forbiddingly ascetic,— has it not its touches of refinement and luxury ? Sometimes, for several nights in succession, there will fall a light film of snow, not adding, practically, to that already upon the ground, yet suffcing to remove all stains and blemishes of the day. Thus Nature takes care of her complexion in winter, so renewing it. from morning to morning, that it still presents an infantine softness and smoothness of texture. Be quick to take suggestion. You do not know but that this gentle snow which fell in the night — winter’s dew — possesses the excellence attributed to the dew of May. With your hand skim off the cream of it, and bathe your face therewith, not forgetting her who melted pearls in her cup, — whose extravagance was naught in comparison with that which we practice, dissolving the jewels of the sky for a lotion ! The fable of a shower of gold was substantiated, on a bright and still day of last winter, when the air became filled with glittering motes of finest snow or frost, visible only in the sunshine. I am not sure that the display should have been called a shower, since the golden atoms, owing to their buoyancy, were kept floating in the air.

Where the flake falls, there it would fain rest in peace; but the wind will not have it so. Even in serene weather, whoever looks out on the open fields is likely to see an occasional skirmish of gentle zephyrs puffing the dust of snow at each other in sport. Snow that has been fretted by the wind for some time at last has the appearance of a flaked and crannied bed of a stream in dry weather. Yonder lies the garden, marked with smooth, shallow furrows trending north and south. Well I know what share has been ploughing there. These furrows are not permanent, but with every returning blast of the west wind are moved forward, as waves are driven towards the shore.

But for me it is the West, and not the North Wind that so astonishes Art with the result of his night-work. In every drifting storm from the west a huge recumbent figure occupies the porch in front of my door. I think that this quiet giant has on helmet, habergeon, and greaves, and that at an instant’s warning he would be ready for assault or defense. Is it strange that I wish to know by what name lie goes in his own native Nifiheim, and why my portal enjoys such guardianship ? Also, as I look out of the window and observe the great North American sloth, white and lazy, stretched at full length upon the rocking bough of the evergreens, I question how long it will continue pasturing there. It will he, perhaps, several days before the shaggy creature loosens its hold and falls to the ground : sun, and not wind, is its chief natural enemy. A great snowfall inspires a novel feeling of adventure and hardihood. Our familiar fields, with their petty bounds, have disappeared, and in their place lies a spacious wilderness, of which, if we please, we may be the first pioneers. How suggestive is the solitary track in a wide snow ! What quest was this ? What Crusoe has goue about his forlorn insular affairs ? Yet, should we too go upon the quest, taken in load by these venturous solitary tracks, they become almost companionable, communicating good-will and courage. “ Follow, follow, tlion shalt win.” A long siege of snow and a voyage at sea have something in common. Steadily lift around us tlie surges of tins fruitless, lifeless white sea. Farewell the good brown earth. It may he that we shall not behold it again for the space of time which we would consume if sailing around Cape Horn, Something like the joy of the returned sea-voyager is ours, when, at the breaking-up of winter, we land, and feel the kindly soil once more under our feet.

I am disposed to credit the rumor I have heard that Night and Winter exchanged vows at the beginning of time. I perceive what close bosom friends they are, and doubt that they will admit a third into their communion ; nevertheless, their comity encourages ray overtures. No winter day. as it seems to me, was ever so fair as the winter night with the moon presiding. Not for the eye of the sun are the finer, subtler wonders of the snow; these are reserved for the celestial wanderer “ with white fire laden.” So well pleased is she with the faithful coldness and purity of the snow that she is constantly visiting it with favors. Therefore arc her nameless gem-bearing mountains and her treasure-houses laid under contribution for the adornment of her terrestrial love, in the folds of whose garments a myriad jewels sparkle. These, one may guess, are the only genuine moonstones. On a summer night the occasional flickering of the dew is explicable by the coming and going of the light breeze over the grass, or by the stir of insects among the blades ; but the continual and ubiquitous sparkle of the frost-glazed snow, where there is neither life nor motion, carries an elfin fascination. Sometimes I liken these keen, restless scintillations to the sparks of electricity excited in the furry coat of some animal: soft and warm, indeed, to the sleeping earth is this ample pelage — as of a mammoth polar bear— spread comfortably over hill and valley. As I walk under the trees I notice that their shadows, printed smoothly on the moonlit snow, produce the effect of a dark blue veining in marble. If I knew how to command their services, a troop of genii should even now be at work, cutting and dressing blocks of this veined marble, to build me a palace that should rival Aladdin’s.

On a stormy evening, when the air is thick with flying snow, I have received charming suggestion from the village lights. Walls, roofs, bounding lines generally, are lost in the snowy obscurity ; but the hospitable windows remain, curtained, mellow-tinted panes, or curtainless pictures of fireside comfort, framed, apparently, by mist and cloud. At a little distance it were easy to imagine that these windows belonged to the ground-floor of heaven, rather than to any houses made with hands.

Though the trumpets of the sky may have been blown in its van, the snow, when it arrives on earth, abhors and annihilates all loud noise. How muffled and remote are the sounds in a village during a great snowfall! — all mutes and subvocals. Stamping of feet in the porch across the way is reported distantly sonorous, as though the noise had been made in a subterranean chamber. Across the high, smooth fields comes the faint pealing of a bell, mysteriously sweet. The bell hangs in the church of a neighboring village; I have often heard it before, but not with the same impression as now. So might have sounded the chimes in the buried church of the legend, on a Christinas morning.

The snow has a mediatorial character. Wherever this earth approaches nearest to heaven, on all loftiest summits of the globe, there stands the white altar, perpetually : nor is the religion to which the altar is reared one of pure abstraction, colorless mysticism. Sunrise, sunset, and the winds, with the snow, bring out on the tops of our Western mountains (if current descriptions do not exaggerate) such surprises of form and color, whirling column and waving banner, as were never dreamed of in the pageants beheld by the initiate of the Eleusinian Mysteries.

Edith M. Thomas.