in Thoreau’s Journal:
The snow which began last night has continued to fall very silently but steadily, and now it is not far from a foot deep, much the most we have had yet; a dry, light, powdery snow. When I come down I see it in miniature drifts against the panes, alternately streaked dark and light as it is more or less dense. A remarkable, perfectly regular conical peak, a foot high, with concave sides, stands in the fireplace under the sink-room chimney. The pump has a regular conical Persian cap, and every post about the house a similar one. It is quite light, but has not drifted. About 9 a. m. it ceases, and the sun comes out, and shines dazzlingly over the white surface. Every neighbor is shoveling out, and hear the sound of shovels scraping on door-steps. Winter now first fairly commenced, I feel.
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