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 The withdrawn and tense sky seems groined like the aisles of a cathedral， and the polished air sparkles as if there were crystals of ice floating in it.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.
...
In winter， nature is a cabinet of curiosities， full of dried specimens， in their natural order and position. The meadows and forests are a hortus siccus. The leaves and grasses stand perfectly pressed by the air without screw or gum， and the bird’ s nests are not hung on an artificial twig， but where they built them.
But now， while we have loitered， the clouds have gathered again， and a few straggling snowflakes are beginning to descend. Faster and faster they fall， shutting out the distant objects from sight. The snow falls on every wood and field， and no crevice is forgotten； by the river and the pond， on the hill and in the valley. Quadrupeds are confined to their coverts and the birds sit upon their perches this peaceful hour. There is not so much sound as in fair weather， but silently and gradually every slope， and the gray walls and fences， and the polished ice， and the sere leaves， which were not buried before， are concealed， and the tracks of men and beasts are lost. With so little effort does nature reassert her rule and blot out the trace of men. Hear how Homer has described the same： “ The snowflakes fall thick and fast on a winter’ s day. The winds are lulled， and the snow falls incessant， covering the tops of the mountains， and the hills， and the plains where the lotus tree grows， and the cultivated fields， and they are falling by the inlets and shores of the foaming sea， but are silently dissolved by the waves.” The snow levels all things， and infolds them deeper in the bosom of nature， as， in the slow summer， vegetation creeps up to the entablature of the temple， and the turrets of the castle， and helps her to prevail over art.
微風緩緩地吹著百葉窗，吹在窗上，非常溫柔，像羽毛似的，偶爾也會猶如幾聲歎息，聽起來像夏日漫漫長夜裏風輕撫著樹葉的聲音。在鋪著草皮的地下，田鼠正在地洞裏呼呼大睡，貓頭鷹則在沼澤地深處的一棵空心樹裏蹲著，兔子、鬆鼠、狐狸都待在家裏。看門的狗靜靜地躺在暖爐旁，牛羊在欄圈裏悄無聲息。連大地都在沉睡——但這不是壽終正寢，而是忙碌一年後第一次美美地睡上一覺。夜已經深了，大自然還在忙碌著，隻有街上一些招牌或小木屋的門軸不時嘎吱嘎吱地響，給沉寂的大自然帶來一點慰藉。也隻有這些聲音，預示著在茫茫宇宙中，在金星和火星之間，天地萬物還有一些是清醒的。我們想起了看似遙遠卻也許近在心中的“溫暖感覺”，還有那些隻有天神們在相聚時才能感受到的—— 一種神聖的鼓舞和難得的交情，而這些對於凡人是不勝蒼涼的。大地此刻在酣睡，可是空氣還很活躍，鵝毛大雪漫天飛舞，好像是一個北方的五穀女神，正在把她的銀種子撒在我們的田野上。
我們也進入了夢鄉，等到醒來時，恰是冬季的早晨。世界靜悄悄的，雪下了厚厚的一層。窗欞上像鋪了柔軟的棉花或羽絨，窗格子顯得寬了些，玻璃上爬滿了冰紋，看起來黯淡而神秘，讓家裏變得更加溫馨舒適。早晨的寂靜真令人難忘。我們踏著吱吱作響的地板來到窗口前，站在一塊沒有結冰的地方，眺望田野風景。屋頂被皚皚的白雪覆蓋著，雪凍成的冰條掛在屋簷下和柵欄上；院子裏的雪柱像竹筍一樣立著，雪柱裏有沒有藏著什麽東西，就無從知曉了；樹木和灌木向四麵八方伸展著它們白色的枝幹；原來是牆壁和籬笆的地方，形態更加奇妙，在昏暗的大地上，它們向左右延伸，似乎在跳躍。仿佛一夜的工夫，大自然就重新設計了一幅田野美景，供人類的藝術家來臨摹。
我們靜靜地拔去了門閂，讓飛雪飄進屋裏，走出屋外，寒風如利刃般迎麵撲來。星星有點黯淡無光，地平線上籠罩了一層深色沉重的薄霧。東方露出一點耀眼的古銅色光彩，預示著天就要亮了，可是西邊的景物，還是很模糊，一片昏暗，無聲無響，似乎是籠罩著地獄之光，鬼影撲現著，好像是非人間。耳邊的聲音也有點陰氣沉沉——雞鳴犬吠，木柴斷裂的聲音，牛群低沉的叫聲——這一切好像來自陰陽河彼岸冥王星的農場，倒不是這些聲音本身特別淒涼，隻是天還沒有亮，所以聽起來很肅穆很神秘，不像是來自於人間。
院子裏、雪地上，狐狸和水獺所留下的印跡清晰可見，這些提醒我們：即使是在冬夜最寂靜的時候，自然界裏的生物也在時時刻刻活動著，並且在雪地裏留下足跡。打開大門，我們邁著輕快的腳步，踏上僻靜的鄉村小路，雪很幹很脆，踩上去發出吱吱的響聲。早起的農夫，駕著雪橇，到遠處的市場上去趕集。這輛雪橇整個夏天都閑置在農夫的門口，如今與木屑稻梗做伴，可算是有了用武之地。它尖銳、清晰、刺耳的聲音，可真能讓早起趕路的人頭腦清醒。透過堆滿積雪的農舍，我們看見農夫早早地把蠟燭點亮了，就像一顆孤寂的星星，散發著稀落的光，宛如某種樸素的美德在做晨禱。接著，煙囪裏冒出的炊煙從樹叢和雪堆裏嫋嫋升起。