noon
No fear of forgetting the good-humoured faces that meet us in our walks every day . Frost . January 23rd . -- At noon to-day I and my white greyhound , Mayflower , set out for a walk into a very beautiful world , -- a sort of silent fairyland , -- a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost . There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its covers with one sheet of pure and uniform white , and just time enough since the snow had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load , and clothed with a delicate coating of rime . The atmosphere was deliciously calm ; soft , even mild , in spite of the thermometer ; no perceptible air , but a stillness that might almost be felt , the sky , rather gray than blue , throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village , and the rimy trees that rise above them , and the sun shining dimly as through a veil , giving a pale fair light , like the moon , only brighter . There was a silence , too , that might become the moon , as we stood at our little gate looking up the quiet street ; a Sabbath-like pause of work and play , rare on a work-day ; nothing was audible but the pleasant hum of frost , that low monotonous sound , which is perhaps the nearest approach that life and nature can make to absolute silence .