ight with unerring hand clothes the landscape with glory. One word to
the north-east wind and he sweeps the track quite clear and causes
myriads of diamonds to fly aimlessly about, ere they settle like tiny
butterflies on tortuous twigs, and rough blades of coarse grass. One
call to the moon and she partially hides her face, painting the haze
around her to a blood-red hue; now a touch of blue upon the ice, further
a streak of emerald, and then the tender mauves of the regal mantle of
frost.

Then the thousand sounds that rise all around: the thousand sounds which
all united make one vast, comprehensive silence: the soughing of the
wind in the bare poplar trees, the rattle of the tiny dead twigs and
moaning of the branches; from far away the dull and ceaseless rumble
which speaks of a restless sea, and now and again the loud and

melancholy boom of the ice, yielding to the restless movements of the
water beneath.

The sounds which make up silence--silence and loneliness, nature's
perfect repose under its downy blanket of snow, the vast embrace of the
night stretching out into infinity in monotonous flatnesses far away, to
the mysterious mists which lie beyond the horizon.

Oh! for the joy of it all! the beauty of the night, the wind and the
frost! and the many landmarks which loom out of the darkness one by one,
to guide that flying figure on its way; the square tower of old
Katwyk-binnen church, the group of pollard willows at the corner of
Veenenburg Polder, the derelict boats on the bank of the Haarlemer Meer,
and always from the left that pungent smell of the sea, the brine and
the peculiar odour which emanates from the dykes close by, from the wet
clay and rotting branches of willows that protect man against the
encroachment of the ocean.

On, on, thou sole inhabitant of this kingdom of the night! fly on thy
wings of metal--hour after hour--midnight--one--two--three--where are
the hours now? There are no hours in the kingdom of the night! On, on,
for the moon's course is swift and this will be a neck to neck race. Ah!
the wicked one! down she goes, lower and lower in her career, and there
is a thick veil of mist on the horizon in the west! Moon! art not
afraid? the mists will smother thee! Tarry yet awhile! tarry ere thou
layest down on the cold, soft bed! thy light! give it yet awhile!--two
hours! one hour until thou hast outlined with silver the openwork tower
of Haarlem's Groote Kirk.

On, on, for a brief