A boy familiar from his infancy with the rigors of our New England winters can form no idea of the impression made on me by this natural phenomenon.

My delight and surprise were as boundless as if the heavy gray sky had let down a shower of pond lilies and white roses, instead of snow-flakes.

It happened to be a half-holiday, so I had nothing to do but watch the feathery crystals whirling hither and thither through the air.

I stood by the sitting-room window gazing at the wonder until twilight shut out the novel scene.
We had had several slight flurries of hail and snow before, but this was a regular nor'easter.
Several inches of snow had already fallen.

The rose-bushes at the door drooped with the weight of their magical blossoms, and the two posts that held the garden gate were transformed into stately Turks, with white turbans, guarding the entrance to the Nutter House.
The storm increased at sundown, and continued with unabated violence through the night.