er. In short, I found that small as was
the sum of money which I had earned, yet it was more than enough for my
needs.

Winter is, of course, the trying time for a resident in the country.
About the beginning of December the weather broke, and there was a week
of driving rain. A fortnight of grey weather followed, and then came
three days of heavy snow. From the moment that the snow ceased winter
became delightful. No words of mine can describe the glory of these
winter days. It is only of late years that people have discovered that
Switzerland is infinitely more beautiful in winter than in summer; some
day they will discover the same truth about the Lake District. It
happened one day in midwinter that business took me as far as Keswick,
and I shall never forget the astonishment and delight of that visit.
Skiddaw was a pure snow mountain, a miniature Mont Blanc; Derwentwater
was blue as polished steel, covered with ice so clear that it was
everywhere transparent; the woods were plumed with snow, and over all
shone the sun of June, and the keen air tingled in the veins like wine.
Beside the road the drifts ran high, hollowed by the wind into a
hundred curves and cavities, and in each the reflected light made a
tapestry of delicate violet and rose. Those who imagine that snow is
only white--dead, cold white--have never seen the pure new-fallen snow,
when the stricture of the frost begins to bind it; such snow has every
colour of the rainbow in it, and where it is beaten fine it is like a
dust of diamonds. Under a hard grey sky snow appears dead white; but
under such a sun as this it glowed and sparkled with all the glories of
an ice cave. And then came the sunset, a sunset to be dreamed of.
Skiddaw was a pyramid of rosy flame; great saffron seas of light lay
over the Catbells, the immense shoulders of Borrowdale were purple, and
the lake was truly a sea of glass and fire. Nor was this a singular
and unmatched day. For a whole month the pageant of the snow lasted.
Close to my own door were glories scarcely inferior to those of
Borrowdale and Derwentwater. The glen was rich with all the fantastic
arabesque of the frost, the moor was like a frozen sea, and four miles
away lay Buttermere, ringing from morn to night with the sound of
skates. There is no greater error than to suppose winter a drear and
joyless season in the country. It has delights of its own unimagined
by the townsman, to whom winter means burst