in Thoreau’s Journal:
A driving snowstorm in the night & still raging—5 or 6 inches deep on a level at 7 AM. All birds are turned into snow birds. Trees and houses have put on the aspect of winter. The travelers carriage wheels, the farmer’s wagon are converted into white disks of snow through which the spokes hardly appear. But it is good now to stay in the house & read & write.
We do not now go wandering all abroad & dissipated—but the imprisoning storm condenses our thoughts— I can hear the clock tick as not in pleasant weather— My life is enriched—
Snowed all day till the ground was covered 8 inches deep.