Its present position, the direction of the wind, the level of the pond, and how much more is given. In its scarred edges and veins is its log rolled up. We fancy ourselves in the interior of a larger house. The surface of the pond is our deal table or sanded floor, and the woods rise abruptly from its edge, like the walls of a cottage. The lines set to catch pickerel through the ice look like a larger culinary preparation, and the men stand about on the white ground like pieces of forest furniture. The actions of these men, at the distance of half a mile over the ice and snow, impress us as when we read the exploits of Alexander in history. They seem not unworthy of the scenery, and as momentous as the conquest of kingdoms. Again we have wandered through the arches of the wood, until from its skirts we hear the distant booming of ice from yonder bay of the river, as if it were moved by some other and subtler tide than oceans know. To me it has a strange sound of home, thrilling as the voice of one’s distant and noble kindred. A mild summer sun shines over forest and lake, and though there is but one green leaf for many rods, yet nature enjoys a serene health. Every sound is fraught with the same mysterious assurance of health, as well now the creaking of the boughs in January, as the soft sough of the wind in July. When Winter fringes every bough With his fantastic wreath, And puts the seal of silence now Upon the leaves beneath; When every stream in its pent-house Goes gurgling on its way, And in his gallery the mouse Nibbleth the meadow hay; Methinks the summer still is nigh, And lurketh underneath, As that same meadow-mouse doth lie Snug in that last year’s heath. And if perchance the chicadee Lisp a faint note anon, The snow is summer’s canopy, Which she herself put on. Fair blossoms deck the cheerful trees, And dazzling fruits depend, The north wind sighs a summer breeze, The nipping frosts to fend, Bringing glad tidings unto me, The while I stand all ear, Of a serene eternity, Which need not winter fear. Out on the silent pond straightway The restless ice doth crack, And pond sprites merry gambols play Amid the deafening rack. Eager I hasten to the vale, As if I heard brave news, How nature held high festival, Which it were hard to lose. I gambol with my neighbor ice, And sympathizing quake, As each new crack darts in a trice Across the gladsome lake. One with the cricket in the ground, And fagot on the hearth, Resounds the rare domestic sound Along the forest path.