1936

It is snowing again tonight and a stiff wind is blowing. It's an eerie world outside, and a fairy one. The street lights reflecting from the glistening snow's surface give a pale rose opalescence to the surrounding houses. A youthful party made gay noises outside our window a while ago, and now, after 11:00 P.M., a man across the street is shoveling off his sidewalk--for what good, bad, or indifferent reason I know not. And just now, I heard someone ask him, "Why not leave that until morning?". I didn't hear the answer. The harsh ka-sh, ka-sh of his shovel continues.

Many cars seem to be out tonight. Why are they out? Being a "day" person, I always wonder where cars are going at night, and why would they be out so late on a night like this? A sparkling, bewitching night to be out, I'll grant, but a warm bed looks more inviting.

The city snow plow just passed and shoved a bit of snow from the center of the street to the side. If the snow continues all night, the first floor people won't be able to see the cars in the street by morning.

The snow is blasted into the crevices of the old poplars outside our windows and is building moats around the bases of the trees--like, but not so deep, as the ones we saw in the Missions last June. The small shrubbery in the yards is almost completely hidden by the sparkling white drifts.

The snow piled on the storm windows certainly reminds me of Whittier's lines in "Snowbound"--

And ere the early bedtime came,

The white drifts piled the window pane,

And through the glass, the clothes line posts

Looked like tall and sheeted ghosts."

I've often meant to learn more of "Snowbound", but usually by the time I have reviewed up to these lines, I give up the task. But, perhaps, on some other night, I will, at least, re-read the whole poem.