Explore "The Snow-Storm. By John Wilson" by Dinah Mulock on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
In summer there is beauty in the wildest moors of Scotland, and the wayfaring man who sits down for an hour's rest beside some little spring that flows unheard through the brightened moss and water-cresses feels his weary heart revived by the silent, serene, and solitary prospect. On every side sweet sunny spots of verdure smile towards him from among the melancholy heather, -- unexpectedly in the solitude a stray sheep, it may be with its lamb, starts half alarmed at his motionless figure, -- insects large, bright, and beautiful come careering by him through the desert air, -- nor does the Wild want its own songsters, the gray linnet, fond of the blooming furze, and now and then the lark mounting up to heaven above the summits of the green pastoral hills. During such a sunshiny hour, the lonely cottage on the waste seems to stand in a paradise; and as he rises to pursue his journey, the traveller looks back and blesses it with a mingled emotion of delight and envy.
There, thinks he, abide the children of Innocence and Contentment, the two most benign spirits that watch over human life.