Meanwhile , the storm has raged without abatement , and now , as the brief afternoon declines , is tossing denser volumes to and fro about the atmosphere . On the window-sill there is a layer of snow reaching halfway up the lowest pane of glass . The garden is one unbroken bed . Along the street are two or three spots of uncovered earth where the gust has whirled away the snow , heaping it elsewhere to the fence-tops or piling huge banks against the doors of houses . A solitary passenger is seen , now striding mid-leg deep across a drift , now scudding over the bare ground , while his cloak is swollen with the wind . And now the jingling of bells -- a sluggish sound responsive to the horse 's toilsome progress through the unbroken drifts -- announces the passage of a sleigh with a boy clinging behind and ducking his head to escape detection by the driver . Next comes a sledge laden with wood for some unthrifty housekeeper whom winter has surprised at a cold hearth . But what dismal equipage now struggles along the uneven street ? A sable hearse bestrewn with snow is bearing a dead man through the storm to his frozen bed . Oh how dreary is a burial in winter , when the bosom of Mother Earth has no warmth for her poor child ! Evening -- the early eve of December -- begins to spread its deepening veil over the comfortless scene . The firelight gradually brightens and throws my flickering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the chamber , but still the storm rages and rattles against the windows . Alas ! I shiver and think it time to be disconsolate , but , taking a farewell glance at dead Nature in her shroud , I perceive a flock of snowbirds skimming lightsomely through the tempest and flitting from drift to drift as sportively as swallows in the delightful prime of summer . Whence come they ? Where do they build their nests and seek their food ? Why , having airy wings , do they not follow summer around the earth , instead of making themselves the playmates of the storm and fluttering on the dreary verge of the winter 's eve ? I know not whence they come , nor why ; yet my spirit has been cheered by that wandering flock of snow-birds . THE SEVEN VAGABONDS . Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer of the year , I came one afternoon to a point which gave me the choice of three directions .
Straight before me the main road extended its dusty length XXXXX Boston ; on the left a branch went toward the sea , and would have lengthened my journey a trifle of twenty or thirty miles , while by the right-hand path I might have gone over hills and lakes to Canada , visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford .
across against as at by for through to up with