16. A pen-and-ink drawing
A snowstorm, which began in the night, is now three or four inches deep. The ground,
more than half bare before, is thus suddenly concealed, and the snow lodges on the trees
and fences and sides of houses. I see how the trees, especially apple trees, are suddenly
brought out relieved against the snow, black on white, every twig as distinct as if it were
a pen-and-ink drawing the size of nature. The snow being spread for a background, while
the storm confines your view to near objects, each apple tree is distinctly outlined against
it. It is a moist snow, lodging on trees — leaf, bough, and trunk.
February 16, 1860
Photograph by Richard Higgins
17. When I come through
the village at ten o'clock
this cold night, the heavy
shadows of the elms,
covering the ground
with their rich tracery,
impress me as if men
had got so much more
than they bargained for
— not only trees to stand
in the air, but to checker
the ground with their
shadows. At night they
lie along the earth. They
tower, they arch, they
droop over the streets
like chandeliers of
darkness.
Photograph by Richard Higgins
20. It is remarkable how universal these grand murmurs
are, these backgrounds of sound−the surf, wind in the forest,
waterfalls, etc.− which yet to the ear and in their origin are
essentially one voice, the earth voice, the breathing or snoring
of the creature. The earth is our ship, and this is the sound of
the wind in her rigging as we sail.
January 2, 1859