The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 2Sue, Eugène
General
The Mysteries of Paris, illustrated with etchings, Vol. 2
Sue, Eugène
Paris (France) -- Fiction
In the country each season has its own distinctive features, its own
peculiar charm; at times the dazzling snow changes the whole scene into
immense landscapes of purest alabaster, exhibiting their spotless
beauties to the reddish gray of the sky. Then may be seen in the glimmer
of twilight, either ascending or descending the hill, a benighted farmer
returning to his habitation; his horse, cloak, and hat, are covered with
the falling snow. Bitter is the cold, biting the north wind, dark and
gloomy the approaching night; but what cares he? There, amid those
leafless trees, he sees the bright taper burning in the window of his
cheerful home; while from the tall chimney a column of dark smoke rolls
upwards through the flaky shower that descends, and speaks to the
toil-worn farmer of a blazing hearth and humble meal prepared by kind
affection to welcome him after the fatigues of his journey. Then the
rustic gossip by the fireside, on which the fagot burns and crackles,
and a peaceful, comfortable night's rest, amid the whistling of the
winds, and the barking of the various dogs at the different farms
scattered around, with the answering cry from the distant watch-dog.
Daylight opens upon a scene of fairy-land. Surely the tiny elves have
been celebrating some grand fête, and have left some of their adornments
behind them, for on each branch hang long spiracles of crystal,
glittering in the rays of a winter's sun with all the prismatic
brilliancy of the diamond. The damp, rich soil of the arable land is
laid down in furrows, where hides the timid hare in her form, or the
speckled partridge runs merrily. Here and there is heard the melancholy
tinkling of the sheep-bell hanging from the neck of some important
leader of the numerous flocks scattered over the verdant heights and
turfy valleys of the neighbourhood; while, carefully wrapped in his dark
gray cloak, the shepherd, seated under shelter of those knotted trunks
and interlaced branches, chants his cheerful lay, while his fingers are
busily employed weaving a basket of rushes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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