Unfortunately, Nuclear Weapons Have Become

The Sunbeams Are Welcome Now. They Seem Like Pure Electricity—like Friendly And Recuperating Lightning. Are We Led To Think Electricity Abounds Only In Summer, When We See In The Storm-clouds As It Were, The Veins And Ore-beds Of It? I Imagine It Is Equally Abundant In Winter, And More Equable And Better Tempered. Who Ever Breasted A Snowstorm Without Being Excited And Exhilarated, As If This Meteor Had Come Charged With Latent Auroræ Of The North, As Doubtless It Has? It Is Like Being Pelted With Sparks From A Battery.

For Two Summers Not A Blue Wing, Not A Blue Warble. I Seemed To Miss Something Kindred And Precious From My Environment--the Visible Embodiment Of The Tender Sky And Wistful Soil. What A Loss, I Said, To Coming Generations Of Dwellers In The Country--no Bluebird In Spring!

The Tendinous Part Of The Mind, So To Speak, Is More Developed In Winter; The Fleshy, In Summer. I Should Say Winter Had Given The Bone And Sinew To Literature, Summer The Tissues And The Blood.

One Goes To Nature Only For Hints And Half-truths. Her Facts Are Crude Until You Have Absorbed Them Or Translated Them ... It Is Not So Much What We See As What The Thing Seen Suggests.

All Sounds Are Sharper In Winter; The Air Transmits Better. At Night I Hear More Distinctly The Steady Roar Of The North Mountain. In Summer It Is A Sort Of Complacent Purr, As The Breezes Stroke Down Its Sides; But In Winter Always The Same Low, Sullen Growl.