produced by david widger .
html version by al haines .
twice told tales
snow-flakes
by nathaniel hawthorne
it is to be , in good earnest , a wintry storm .
the cloud-spirits are slowly weaving her white mantle .
thus gradually , by silent and stealthy influences , are great changes wrought .
we , likewise , shall lose sight of our mother 's familiar visage , and must content ourselves with looking heavenward the oftener .
now , leaving the storm to do his appointed office , let us sit down , pen in hand , by our fireside .
in our brief summer , i do not think , but only exist in the vague enjoyment of a dream .
however transitory their glow , they at least shine amid the darksome shadow which the clouds of the outward sky fling through the room .
now look we forth again , and see how much of his task the storm-spirit has done .
slow and sure !
he has the day , perchance the week , before him , and may take his own time to accomplish nature 's burial in snow .
very sad are the flower shrubs in midwinter !
the roofs of the houses are now all white , save where the eddying wind has kept them bare at the bleak corners .
look next into the street , where we have seen an amusing parallel to the combat of those fancied demons in the upper regions .
it is a snow-battle of school-boys .
what pitched battles , worthy to be chanted in homeric strains !
what storming of fortresses , built all of massive snowblocks !
what feats of individual prowess , and embodied onsets of martial enthusiasm !
who reared it ?
and what means it ? "
the shattered pedestal of many a battle monument has provoked these questions , when none could answer .
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 ?
it is stern winter 's vesture .
it is the voice of winter ; and when parents and children bear it , they shudder and exclaim , " winter is come !
cold winter has begun his reign already ! "
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 and broad lakes , which turn to rock beneath his footsteps .
his dreary empire is established ; all around stretches the desolation of the pole .
such fantasies , intermixed among graver toils of mind , have made the winter 's day pass pleasantly .
on the window-sill , there is a layer of snow , reaching half-way up the lowest pane of glass .
the garden is one unbroken bed .
next comes a sledge , laden with wood for some unthrifty housekeeper , whom winter has surprised at a cold hearth .
but what dismal equipage now struggles along the uneven street ?
a sable hearse , bestrewn with snow , is bearing a dead man through the storm to his frozen bed .
o , how dreary is a burial in winter , when the bosom of mother earth has no warmth for her poor child !
alas !
i shiver , and think it time to be disconsolate .
whence come they ?
where do they build their nests , and seek their food ?
i know not whence they come , nor why ; yet my spirit has been cheered by that wandering flock of snow-birds .
end of the project gutenberg ebook of snow flakes ( from " twice told tales " ) , by nathaniel hawthorne