_Feb. 19._--Cold and sharp last night--clear and not much wind--the
full moon shining, and a fine spread of constellations and little and
big stars--Sirius very bright, rising early, preceded by many-orb'd
Orion, glittering, vast, sworded, and chasing with his dog. The earth
hard frozen, and a stiff glare of ice over the pond. Attracted by the
calm splendor of the night, I attempted a short walk, but was driven
back by the cold. Too severe for me also at 9 o'clock, when I came
out this morning, so I turn'd back again. But now, near noon, I have
walk'd down the lane, basking all the way in the sun (this farm has a
pleasant southerly exposure,) and here I am, seated under the lee of
a bank, close by the water. There are bluebirds already flying about,
and I hear much chirping and twittering and two or three real songs,
sustain'd quite awhile, in the mid-day brilliance and warmth. (There!
that is a true carol, coming out boldly and repeatedly, as if the
singer meant it.) Then as the noon strengthens, the reedy trill of the
robin--to my ear the most cheering of bird-notes. At intervals, like
bars and breaks (out of the low murmur that in any scene, however
quiet, is never entirely absent to a delicate ear,) the occasional
crunch and cracking of the ice-glare congeal'd over the creek, as it
gives way to the sunbeams--sometimes with low sigh--sometimes with
indignant, obstinate tug and snort.
(Robert Burns says in one of his letters: "There is scarcely any
earthly object gives me more--I do not know if I should call it
pleasure--but something which exalts me--something which enraptures
me--than to walk in the shelter' d side of a wood in a cloudy winter
day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving
over the plain.
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