_Dec. 8._ Nothing in nature is sneaking or chapfallen, as somewhat maltreated and slighted, but each is satisfied with its being, and so is as lavender and balm. If skunk-cabbage is offensive to the nostrils of men, still has it not drooped in consequence, but trustfully unfolded its leaf of two hands' breadth. What was it to Lord Byron whether England owned or disowned him, whether he smelled sour and was skunk-cabbage to the English nostril or violet-like, the pride of the land and ornament of every lady's boudoir? Let not the oyster grieve that he has lost the race; he has gained as an oyster. FAIR HAVEN[43] _Dec. 15._ 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 penthouse Goes gurgling on its way, And in his gallery the mouse Nibbleth the meadow hay; Methinks the summer still is nigh, And lurketh there below, As that same meadow mouse doth lie Snug underneath the snow. And if perchance the chickadee Lisp a faint note anon, The snow is summer's canopy, Which she herself put on. Rare 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, While that I stand all ear, Of a serene eternity, That need not winter fear. Out on the silent pond straightway The restless ice doth crack, And pond sprites merry gambols play Amid the deaf'ning rack. Eager I press me to the vale As I had heard brave news, How nature held high festival, Which it were hard to lose. I crack me with my neighbor ice, And sympathizing quake, As each new rent darts in a trice Across the gladsome lake. One with the cricket in the ground, And fuel on the hearth, Resounds the rare domestic sound Along the forest path. Fair Haven is my huge tea-urn That seethes and sings to me, And eke the crackling fagots burn,— A homebred minstrelsy. SOME SCRAPS FROM AN ESSAY ON "SOUND AND SILENCE" WRITTEN IN THE LATTER HALF OF THIS MONTH,—DECEMBER, 1838[44] As the truest society approaches always nearer to solitude, so the most excellent speech finally falls into silence. We go about to find Solitude and Silence, as though they dwelt only in distant glens and the depths of the forest, venturing out from these fastnesses at midnight. Silence _was_, say we, before ever the world was, as if creation had displaced her, and were not her visible framework and foil. It is only favorite dells that she deigns to frequent, and we dream not that she is then imported into them when we wend thither, as Selden's butcher busied himself with looking after his knife, when he had it in his mouth. For where man is, there is Silence. * * * * *