Winter takes the form of a cold and misty fog which turns the dark masses of trees vague and makes of distance a mystery. Yet, it holds close to earth, so that the marbled sky of drifting clouds remains visible. It gathers and condenses on the pines, from which the drops fall to fill night with a slow and sombre drumming. Every blade of grass is wet, and would sparkle, were any beam of light of reach it. But the darkness is dense, and only the diffuse, pale glow descending from the clouds illuminates the scene. The hours pass without change, until it seems as though they have not passed at all, but have ceased to be, and all there is of the world is this dim night of fog like a cold sweat, and the constant weeping of the pines.