One day it began again to snow; a million feathers from the frost
king's fleece were flying in the air. It snowed all day, and in the
evening it snowed and whirled and blew around the Eyry, with its little
party of choice spirits in its cosy parlor making merry and singing.
Perhaps it was the "Wood Robin," or the "Skylark," or one of Colcott's
glees, or one of Mendelssohn's two-part songs, or Schubert's
"Serenade," or Beethoven's "Adelaide"; or maybe an interlude of piano,
one of Mozart's Sonatas, or "Der Freyschutz," and then a Kyrie, Dona
Nobis, Gloria, or Agnus Dei, one or all, until it was time to retire.
And still it snowed and snowed.
From the Eyry parlor I would go to my quarters in the greenhouse, and
there the old man would be anxious for the flowers, that the fire be
neither too hot nor too cold, and with a long story to tell me of
manners and customs of his youth in Denmark--some of them quaint and
strange enough--would slowly finish out the evening, and it was often
midnight before we retired.
All the next day it snowed, and piled up its pure whiteness over every
projecting thing, whirling and tossing its feathers about, unlike
anything else in nature, and at night it snowed still.
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