The last day of the old
year was one of those bright, cold, dazzling winter
days, which bombard us with their brilliancy, and
command our admiration but never our love. The sky was
sharp and blue; the snow diamonds sparkled insistently;
the stark trees were bare and shameless, with a kind of
brazen beauty; the hills shot assaulting lances of
crystal. Even the shadows were sharp and stiff and
clear-cut, as no proper shadows should be. Everything
that was handsome seemed ten times handsomer and less
attractive in the glaring splendor; and everything that
was ugly seemed ten times uglier, and everything was
either handsome or ugly. There was no soft blending,
or kind obscurity, or elusive mistiness in that
searching glitter. The only things that held their own
individuality were the firs--for the fir is the tree of
mystery and shadow, and yields never to the
encroachments of crude radiance.
But finally the day began to realise that she was
growing old. Then a certain pensiveness fell over her
beauty which dimmed yet intensified it; sharp angles,
glittering points, melted away into curves and
enticing gleams.
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