Silently we unlatch the door， letting the drift fall in， and step abroad to face the cutting air. Already the stars have lost some of their sparkle， and a dull， leaden mist skirts the horizon. A lurid brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day， while the western landscape is dim and spectral still， and clothed in a somber Tartarean light， like the shadowy realms. They are infernal sounds only that you hear—the crowing of cocks， the barking of dogs， the chopping of wood， the lowing of kine， all seem to come from Pluto’ s barnyard and beyond the Styx — not for any melancholy they suggest， but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent tracks of the fox or otter， in the yard， remind us that each hour of the night is crowded with events， and the primeval nature is still working and making tracks in the snow. Opening the gate， we tread briskly along the lone country road， crunching the dry and crisped snow under our feet， or aroused by the sharp， clear creak of the wood sled， just starting for the distant market， from the early farmer’ s door， where it has lain the summer long， dreaming amid the chips and stubble； while far through the drifts and powdered windows we see the farmer’ s early candle， like a paled star， emitting a lonely beam， as if some severe virtue were at its matins there. And one by one the smokes begin to ascend from the chimneys amid the trees and snows.
We hear the sound of wood chopping at the farmers’ doors， far over the frozen earth， the baying of the house-dog， and the distant clarion of the cock—though the thin and frosty air conveys only the finer particles of sound to our ears， with short and sweet vibrations， as the waves subside soonest on the purest and lightest liquids， in which gross substances sink to the bottom. They come clear and bell-like， and from a greater distance in the horizons， as if there were fewer impediments than in summer to make them faint and ragged. The ground is sonorous， like seasoned wood， and even the ordinary rural sounds are melodious， and the jingling of the ice on the trees is sweet and liquid. There is the least possible moisture in the atmosphere， all being dried up or congealed， and it is of such extreme tenuity and elasticity that it becomes a source of delight. The withdrawn and tense sky seems groined like the aisles of a cathedral， and the polished air sparkles as if there were crystals of ice floating in it. As they who have resided in Greenland tell us that when it freezes．“the sea smokes like burning turf-land， and a fog or mist arises， called frost-smoke， ” which cutting smoke frequently raises blisters on the face and hands， and is very pernicious to the health." But this pure， stinging cold is an elixir to the lungs， and not so much a frozen mist as a crystallized midsummer haze， refined and purified by cold.