This would be a great mistake. The
dweller in that desolate region, after passing a long, weary winter,
with nothing for the eye to rest upon but the vast expanse of snow and
ice, is in a condition to appreciate, beyond the ability of an
inhabitant of warmer climes, the little flowerets that peep up almost
through the snow when the spring sunlight begins to exercise its power
upon the white mantle of the earth. In little patches here and there,
where the dark-colored moss absorbs the warm rays of the sun, and the
snow is melted from its surface, the most delicate flowers spring up at
once to gladden the eye of the weary traveller. It needs not the
technical skill of the botanist to admire these lovely tokens of
approaching summer. Thoughts of home, in a warmer and more hospitable
climate, fill his heart with joy and longing, as meadows filled with
daisies and buttercups spread out before him, while he stands upon the
crest of a granite hill that knows no footstep other than the tread of
the stately musk-ox or the antlered reindeer, as they pass in single
file upon their frequent journeys, and whose caverns echo to no sound
save the howling of the wolves or the discordant cawing of the raven.
He is a boy again, and involuntarily plucks the feathery dandelion, and
seeks the time of day by blowing the puffy fringe from its stem, or
tests the faith of the fair one, who is dearer to him than ever in this
hour of separation, by picking the leaves from the yellow-hearted
daisy.
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