There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning,and through the partially-frosted window-panes I love to watch the gradual beginning of  the storm.A few featherery flakes are scattered widely through the air and hover downward with uncertain flight,now almost alighting on the earth ,now whirled again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere.These are not the big flakes heavy with mositure which melt as they touch the ground  and are portentous of a soaking rain.It is to be in good earnest a wintry storm.The two or three people visible on the sidewalks have an aspect of endurance ,wrapped in chunky scarf ,a blue-nosed,frosty fortitude,which is evidently assumed in anticipation of a comfortless and blustering day.By nightfall or at least,before the sun sheds another glimmering smile upon us-the street and our little garden will be heaped with mountain snowdrifts.The soil,already frozen for weeks past,is prepared to sustain whatever burden may be laid upon it,and to a Northern eye the landscape will lose its melancholy bleakness and acquire a beauty of its own when Mother Earth ,like her children.shall have put on the fleecy garbs of her winter's wear.The cloud-spirits are slowly weaving her white mantle.