Winter Scents

At the bottom of the ravine, coming out into a bay of old pasture that once pushed up into the forest, I was suddenly in a twenty-acre plantation of Christmas trees, for which, I suppose, I had all along been headed. All the little pines herded together on one side of an ancient and now snow buried wall, the little hemlocks on the other. A few cedars had withdrawn to a corner by themselves. All of these trees were now partially buried, like the wall, with only their tops showing, the hemlock leaders bent into graceful curves with the weight of snow clinging to them. What should I cut—a pine, a cedar, a hemlock? The pines grew the thickest—one taken from their number would be least missed. I chose one about seven feet high, dug down to its base, and sank my ax into the soft, resinous wood. The stump bled pitch and pitch stuck to my mittens, and the fragrance of it was in my nose as I dragged my booty toward the birches again, to gather up my sack of greens. When I emerged from the birches with snowshoes pointed backward on my earlier trail, the shadows were no longer blue—they were amethyst. The vast shadow of the mountain above me was already creeping down the pasture and out across the glistening plain. Amethyst were the far eastern hills, and over them an opal sky. From a western window in the village three miles away the sun flashed back into my eyes a sudden glint of orange flame—the oboe speaking in the colour symphony of sunset. I dragged my tree behind me down the slope (not sorry that it was down instead of up), and long before I crossed the road and came into my dooryard I caught on the still air the fragrance of invisible wood smoke, from the fires dancing on my hearths.
THE smell of invisible wood smoke, symbol of a fire d ancing on the hearth—how many times that fragrance has smote my nostrils and made me pause with a clutch around the heart! We all live by symbols, I suppose, as, indeed, Christmas itself is but a symbol, far less of the birth of a Babe than of our own capacity to be generous and kind and loving toward our fellow men. But yet, during all the years I lived in town, and all the happy holidays I spent there, no symbol ever reached me to make me pause and thank God for my home, my happiness, as does the smell of wood smoke at winter twilight or the sight of a red window square over frosty fields. I do not say there can be no home and Christmas with steam heat and a wilted evergreen bought of the grocer; home, after all, is a state of mind. But for me, at least, an open fire is as essential to the beauty and comfort and homeliness of a dwelling as of a camp. To what dim instincts this traces back, I cannot say. My immediate ancestors cut their own wood and heated their houses and cooked their food by its blaze on the huge hearth. When, at last, I left my steam radiator in New York to rouse some other tenant from slumber by its
matutinal cannonadings and fled to the country, to swing an ax in my forest, to feed my own hearths, to snuggle to the blaze for warmth and watch it for cheer, I had a strange sensation of having done all this before, of repeating a well-known act, of coming not into a strange house, a strange life, but
of coming back home. The ground-pine wreaths, the shadowy tree, the dancing firelight of the first
Christmas of the return were almost like a dream, as unreal yet familiar as the evergreens outside, which were not pines or Norway spruces at all but illustrations come to life from a certain Christmas
card of my boyhood, forgotten till that day.
Country Life, Volume 37

Beds in winter should be even more carefully made than in summer. Sleeping on the bare ground will do in warmer weather in case of absolute necessity, but in winter when cold is added to aching joints the last comfort is removed. And you surely will be cold if you touch the ground at any spot. The bed should be soft enough to support the body at all points and thick enough to prevent it touching the ground at all.
A good bough bed affords another example of the virtue in dead air space. The confined air in the matted needles is an excellent insulation against the radiation of bodily warmth downward. If you touch the ground or floor at all, heat will disseminate directly at each contact point. A layer of fine light boughs on top of the blankets will decrease the circulation of air above and thus lessen radiation. On chill summer nights I have slept warmly in bivouacs with no covering but a blanket of balsam boughs. If the camp is in a cabin, beds in bunks or on the floor should be made with no less care. Beds made in snow depend for their underneath insulation entirely upon the blankets and furs.
My method of laying a bough bed is somewhat unorthodox. Kipling tells of "A couch of new pulled hemlock," and nearly every writer upon camping has laid emphasis upon the fact that the boughs should be very small. I prefer rather to cut down small trees and to take practically all of the branches from top to bottom, though if the bottom ones are too large, with very heavy butts, I clip them off a little. Balsam is the best, as it is always soft to the touch and very fragrant. Hemlock is good, but more of it is required. Spruce comes next and is almost as satisfactory as balsam, but will hardly scent up your blankets to shed their fragrance on the common air of the closet at home.
Begin by laying the larger boughs at the head with curved side up and the butts toward the foot. Put several layers of them across from side to side, before working downward at all, then drop toward the foot with still other layers, the soft tip ends of which will lap thickly over the springy bows of the boughs in the layer above. Continue in this fashion to the foot of the bed and then stick the finest boughs upright as thickly as possible over the whole, but with their tips inclined slightly to the head. Winter Camping
 By Warwick Stevens Carpenter
A single Hemlock, standing alone, with every curving line ridged with snow, through which the feathery green shines darkly, is a fair sight, a Christmas emblem, a tree of beauty. When the sun shines and the snow melts, a faint aromatic fragrance emanates from the dripping foliage, as if the tree were burning incense. This delicate perfume, full of soft suggestion, completes the charm of this wonderful tree, precious alike for nobleness of shaft and grace of branch and leafage, seeming forever to associate it in one's mind with that dear holiday of childhood, which is the solemn festival of maturity.
For the Hemlock is, above all, the Christmas-tree. Its perfume, whenever we inhale it, brings to our minds, not only a vision of the green wood, but a thought of dim and quiet churches wreathed with its boughs, of a deep chancel embowered in its branches, of joyous hymns from white-robed choristers, of the great angelic chorus,
Gloria in Excelsis Domino,
with which Christmas Day first dawned upon a waiting earth, and which echoes still in solemn chant of earthly voices from cloister and cathedral, from chapel and fireside, as year by year the happy day returns, on which we wreathe about the Christmas altar and the Christmas hearth the Hemlock-bough to give forth the sweet incense of its fragrance.
Garden and Forest, Volume 4
 edited by Charles Sprague Sargent
They see," she said, "just exactly what some other grown person — ten, twenty, thirty years before—had the spiritual wits to implant in their childish minds. They see a silver answer to a tinsel signal—memories too poignant to express, a long-disrupted family circle welded for one brief flash together again, a dog's bark out of oblivion, the absurd landscape on a long-forgotten sled.
the tingle of a frosty night, the crackle of a winter dawn, all the thrill and magic of suspense and surprise, the exultancy of all the frolic senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste—a world aglitter, in harmony, at feast; love, friendship, tenderness, even the mystery of the Nativity itself, conjured into actuality by the scent of a peppermint-candy stick, or the clamor of chimes across the city roof tops. Why that Santa Claus sleigh tonight, dashing out of tit black woods, that isn't just a Santa Claus sleigh; it's a trumpet call to the eyes, a signal back to childhood. And if you've got any Christmas in you it's going to son of get you—the surprise of it, the dazzle, the audacity."
The Ladies' Home Journal



A single Hemlock, standing alone, with every curving line ridged with snow, through which the feathery green shines darkly, is a fair sight, a Christmas emblem, a tree of beauty. When the sun shines and the snow melts, a faint aromatic fragrance emanates from the dripping foliage, as if the tree were burning incense. This delicate perfume, full of soft suggestion, completes the charm of this wonderful tree, precious alike for nobleness of shaft and grace of branch and leafage, seeming forever to associate it in one's mind with that dear holiday of childhood, which is the solemn festival of maturity.
For the Hemlock is, above all, the Christmas-tree. Its perfume, whenever we inhale it, brings to our minds, not only a vision of the green wood, but a thought of dim and quiet churches wreathed with its boughs, of a deep chancel embowered in its branches, of joyous hymns from white-robed choristers, of the great angelic chorus,
Gloria in Excelsis Domino,
with which Christmas Day first dawned upon a waiting earth, and which echoes still in solemn chant of earthly voices from cloister and cathedral, from chapel and fireside, as year by year the happy day returns, on which we wreathe about the Christmas altar and the Christmas hearth the Hemlock-bough to give forth the sweet incense of its fragrance. Garden and Forest, Volume 4

He waited in the winter-fragrant wood, walking slowly to and fro, lingering for her to pass him. The wind filled the grey trees with moan and threat; from the rocking branches dripped a shining spray of raindrops to the bed of russet and yellow leaves which almost buried bramble and bracken; the blackbirds running over these leaves made a sound like fourfooted creatures.
When she came upon him all trace of sadness and reverie and thoughtfulness had vanished from her face. She was bright and sparkling, full of delight with the morning. "This is not the place to welcome the day," she said, turning him round, with a laugh. "I will show you where you should salute the morning." She led him back to the marshes, and springing on to the fallen elm, stood with her face to the sea, snufhng the air,
"Isn't it fine !" she called to him. Her eyes were half-closed to keep out the wind, her hair was blown about her face, her skirt blew out behind her. "Jump up, and drink it in," she cried. "Oh, it's strength and happiness! Like this, you should do it!" She stood very upright, her hands resting on her hips, and inhaled slowly through her nostrils, filling her lungs with the strong air; after holding it a minute without effort, she gradually exhaled it through her parted lips, letting her breast sink gently down again. "See how long you can hold it!" she challenged; "we will start together; one, two, three— now!"
Tables of Stone
 By Harold Begbie


But still the snow never seems quite natural. We tire of it sooner than of some other phases of nature. When it is falling in bridal fleece and veil, its exquisite charm holds us captive, its purity leads us to think of heaven, though why heaven should be a vision in cold and spotless white we cannot tell. We dream of angels and saints and the children of the blessed. But, if it remain weeks and months, turning to marble blocks, squeaking and grinding under runners, sending the snow chill to the tips of toes and down the sensitive spine, then we are more than ready to greet the first bud and leaf or spear of grass almost with tears of gladness. Then the brown earth seems our congener, our old familiar gossip and friend. The white world ever remains a little remote and ghostly, scarce an intimate, unless we can subdue it by our energy and pluck. It is good to get out and wade when the dainty down quilt is still untouched by the least speck of soilure, to note the ripples and markings of delicate wave work on the uplands, the low relief sculpture of the storm, fit to instruct artists in the light and graceful touch of the chisel. In those first hours the new fallen snow scatters a fragrance in the air to be compared with wafts from a rose garden. It is so delicate and dainty, we are half intoxicated by its perfume. Whence does it come? By what alembic is it distilled? The scientists have not revealed to us the secret. The spruces and pines and

hemlocks and cedars, with their loaded boughs, have perhaps made us the present of this winter fragrance. We dream of great stretches of evergreen forests in their dim spectral loveliness, of the majesty of great snow plains, of mountains crowding the horizon, shouldering each other in their glittering robes, with shadows of mauve and blue and purple of unearthly softness and depth.
Agusta Lerned 

The scent of the thaw precedes the actual process. I should think that the snow must soon be swept away, by the flavor of the air, which tastes of the leaven of spring distributed through the wintry mass. And yet the spring is still far distant.
Sap flowing, resinous bark, breathing buds, all are suggested in the fragrant draught of the moist air. In years gone I have been much puzzled to trace to its origin this compound perfume sprinkled upon the keen breath of winter. I have at last tracked it to its source in the evergreens. Though the fragrance is to be noticed at other seasons, it is never so marked as in the winter time. Is it possible that the odor is enhanced by the shedding of the leaves, now going on? There was a touch of extra refinement to-day when, as I passed under their swinging boughs, the old fir-trees shed the breath of the hyacinth upon my path.
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 73
 By Philip Gengembre Hubert
Few were abroad. Early morning in the park is solitary as age, —solitary and very sweet Perhaps it was the spell of the two solitudes that made Pelleas and me look with a kind of happy scrutiny at every one we met; for some passed in haste, and some without seeing, but there were those whose eyes were all alight for the sun's sake.
Overhead a sickle-shaped fragment of silver showed very dimly, —a mere symbol of a moon "half-veiled with a shining veil, thinking delicate thoughts."
Presently I caught a little tender ghost of fragrance, born I do not know where in that brown winter world. It was as if some faint prisoned perfume in sleeping stems
had stirred to the sun,and had stolen forth hoping to meet the spring; or it may have been sweet odor from the ice of the little lake itself; for, with a!l the dreaming lily leaves and satin weeds, winter waters must be sealed pools of perfume.
I stood for a moment to greet the stillborn scent, and so fell a little back. Watching Pelleas as I hurried on, his shoulder and his left hand on his stick, a net of tears spread over my eyes, before I was aware.
We passed a thorn bush, laden with little birds, brown fruit of the bare boughs. We passed the sleeping flower beds, and Pelleas had a pretty fancy, whose truth I do not doubt.
"You see," said Pelleas, "all the quiet beds are really peopled with little waiting phantoms of the unborn flowers, if only one could see well enough."Success, Volume 6

Step aside from this cart-path, and tell me if each tree has not a clearly defined character? The mottled sycamore; the gnarled wild apple tree with its suggestions of sourness; the stately tulip tree; the graceful liquid-ambar; the drooping willow; the monarch oak; the staid chestnut; the shaggy hickory; the swamp maple; the glorious elm,—each is an ideal of what a tree may become.
As we crunch along through the crusty snow, we crush the buds of the sweet-fern shrubs and inhale their fragrance. We listen to the moan of the pines and push through the alders that border the swamp. We remember that here, last summer, the star-wort whitened the bog, and many a time we thought we were sure of its trails, but, alas, they were all afloat. Here the leaf-blades of the calamus crowned, and the yellow and blue of the aquatics gleamed. Ah! for one hour of this firmness to stand upon next summer ! So much of promise is frozen over: such an abundance of rootlets, with hidden life, beneath this frost!
Let us take home a fagot bundle-—a large bough of cedar, also. Cast the cedar on the grate fire and enjoy the forest incense that fills our apartment. Other resinous woods are delightfully aromatic and spicy; when all aflame ithey crackle and sparkle. . There is much sport for children in a woodpile. As soon as the snow-fall was sufflcient for sledging, we always had, in my early home, cords of wood piled by the back door. Here we played log cabin, and the moss that grew on the logs was used as draperies. We constructed bark huts for our dolls and roofed them with the quaint wood lichens. These mosseries are vividly remembered, as we notice the rustic window-work that emphasizes our holiday displays. Those of us, who visited our Centennial in '76, may remember the state-house, from Mississippi, made of logs or log bark and hung with the southern moss; it was rustically pretty.
The Ornithologist and Botanist. V. 1-2, No 6; Jan. 1891-July 1892, Volume 1

Related in its wholesome purity to the fragrance of the morning and the forest is the fresh odorless odor which one brings in on one’s clothes and person after a long walk on a cold winter day. What white is to the colors, this fragrant freshness is to the more positive perfumes. Windows that have just been washed and linen dried in the wind and sun also acquire this wholesome redolence, a redolence which one might reasonably fancy is psychically duplicated by the aura of a clean soul.
The New England Magazine, Volume 43

A Winter Night's Dream
To lovers even Winter has its charms.
Last year I grieved to see the creepers fall
In flakes of fire from off" the rimy wall,
Or hear the elm trees toss their leafless arms
In the November gale; now one thought warms
My heart to gladness, when, at night's recall,
I cross the ice-bound meadows to the Hall,
And watch the lights spring up in lowland farms.
For then my fancy sees a curtained room
Lit by the dancing flames; a ruddy gleam
Plays on the Dutch-tiled hearth; fragrance of tea
Makes soft the air; while, in the outer gloom,
The piano sighs a plaintive melody,
Where in the growing dusk you play and dream.
by Rosa Newmarch

Round at the back, under the wide, open shed, a door led into the kitchen, another led into the living-room, another into the store-room; and two big, slanting double-doors, scoured and slippery with four generations of sliders, covered the cavernous way into the cellar. But they let the smell of apples up, as the garret door let the smell of sage and thyme come down; while from the door of the store-room, mingling with the odor of apples and herbs, filling the whole house and all my early memories, came the smell of broom-corn, came the sound of grandfather's loom.
Behind the stove in the kitchen, fresh-papered like the kitchen walls, stood the sweet-potato box (a sweet potato must be kept dry and warm), an ample box, a ten-barrel box full of Jersey sweets that were sweet, -long, golden, syrupy potatoes, grown in the warm sandy soil of the “Jethro Piece.” Against the box stood the sea-chest, fresh with the same paper and piled with wood. There was another such chest in the living-room near the old fireplace, and still another in grandfather's work-room behind the tenplate stove.’ But wood and warmth and sweet smells were not all. There was music also, the music of life, of young life and of old life-grandparents, grandchildren (about twenty-eight of them). There were seven of us alone—a girl at each end of the seven and one in the middle, which is Heaven's own mystic number and divine arrangement).
Dallas Lore Sharp

One of the most picturesque and comforting memories, as I reckon them over, is that of the old home kitchen at dusk. Have you a kitchen of delightful memory in mind? If not, I am sorry, for you are lacking a pearl of price. The bland warmth of the room smote you gratefully as you came into it after the out-door tasks were over, even to the abhorred kindling splitting. There was no light save the red of the glowing cook stove, reflected a hundred times on the immaculate surfaces of rows of tin pots and pans that hung about the walls. It was a cavernous place, full of warm, dusky-black shapes and alluring pungent odors. How good the feeling to stretch out your hands over the steady warmth of the range—Did they call them ranges, then?—to pull off your soaked mittens and boots, warming your very heart of hearts to its core....
Outing, Volume 43

The day the wonderful barrel was hoisted on its support in the back yard did you not, now and then, slyly stroll over in the vicinity thereof with a chosen friend or two, stand watchful of the dripping bung, presently boldly toy with the spigot, though all the time fearful you might not be successful in turning it off and might occasion the loss of the precious vintage—and the more precious apple butter? But who could forego quenching one's thirst with new cider, especially when standing close to a dripping bung?
Did they let you take part in that great paring of the evening before, family and neighborly helpers gathered in the big kitchen where, amid quip and gossip, they deftly pared and cored and quartered until a tub, shiningly clean, was well filled with the fragrant fruit? Fingers got shrunken and stained in the labor, but that just showed apple-butter time had come; with those living in a small town, the ceremonial of the year.
Maybe they let you stir the precious stuff after the sweetening was in and the mixture must be watched every instant to keep it from burning. A proud, responsible, happy trust, the fortunes of the family—at least the winter well-being—dependent on your devotedness to this duty. You scraped the sides, you sounded the bottom, you stood over the seething mass until your arms ached, your legs wobbled, your eyes burned, your cheeks smarted. Presently relief came; mother approached with saucer and wooden spoon to test the contents of the kettle. No, not thick enough yet; must boil down more. So the post of stirrer becomes one that tests endurance to the utmost, that requires shifts of workers. When the next watch comes to your relief, burned, benumbed, you seek a sunny "lair of grass" where you can lie relaxed, and, without the drawback of aching muscles, enjoy the delectable odor commingled of brown sugar, cinnamon, cloves, allspice, "rhambos," and cider.
In apple butter East and West meet; the spices from the Orient are called to add their tang to the harvest gathered from trees growing on Ohio hillsides, to the fruit and to the juice of the fruit. As the mixture thickens and darkens to the point where it is pronounced "done," the air, too, grows thicker and sweeter with the perfume from hot spices, the whole neighborhood learns that the Blanks are "making their apple butter"; have arrived at their ceremonial.
Dusk, and at last the apple butter is done, is ready to be put into the jars. "Crocks," you called them, and they stood there in array; big ones, middle-sized ones, and little ones. When filled they were neatly covered, then carried to the cellar and placed a row on a shelf devoted to their sole use. The shelf the winter through yielded the welcome "sauce" craved in that period before fresh fruit from the tropics had become a commonplace, before bananas, oranges, and grapefruit were in daily use in the average household.
    With the present price for fruit shipped from a distance, and with the present harking back to old family industries, perhaps we shall return to the home-made apple butter, again shall make it after the old fashion. Hasten the day! Give the youngsters a taste of what real apple butter is, give them a chance to assist at the rites associated with its preparation. And give the older ones, in addition to the perfect dish, the reawaking of memories—youth, mother, home, small town, ruddy, crisp autumn weather, gypsy fire and kettle, cider and spice, smoke and once-familiar figures that move therein, labors shared in common, family bond and neighborly bond— Old Days !
Scribner's Magazine ..., Volume 66



Romance of Breadmaking.
Out of doors the air is bleak, with scuds of rain and showers of sleet. I look out upon a monotone of color, a broad, gray sky, a featureless expanse, cold, pale, melancholy. Of course there may be pleasure, even in a rainy day in midwinter. For the mortal, sound in body and serene of mind, there is really no such thing as bad weather. Every sky has a beauty of its own, and storms that whip the blood do but make it pulse more vigorously. There have been times when a storm like this would call me forth imperiously, but today I seek comfort within doors.
Today the romance of farm life is within these four walls. Today is baking day. Sweet odors from the oven float out on the air of kitchen and dining room with spicy, warm and penetrating fragrance. There is a charm about a loaf of freshly baked bread. I wonder how many of our people know that American women, as a class, are the only ones who do their own breadmaking and breadbaking.
The country homes of America, as a rule, make their own bread, the true ambrosia, veritable food for the gods.
 Modern Miller, Volume 32



Near the base of the trees where the ground is sheltered, the snow has been warded off, and the soft brown carpet nestles warmly up to the roots and stems, while the wide branches curve with their tips in the snow, making an arched wigwam, protected from the storm. The top needles, agitated by a morning zephyr, have shaken off their hoary hoods, and stand up green and shining against the pale blue of a winter sky, innocent of cloud. As the sun climbs higher there is a low patter among the branches, a fall of snow from an upper limb ; soon the rebound of a released branch brings on an avalanche, as the sturdy tree struggles to shake itself free from the encumbering mass. Then from the tree distils an aromatic fragrance as the wet branches grow warm with the approach of noon. The stir of the branches, the rustle of the melting snow falling among them, give a low sweet murmur, the song of the young Fir-tree dreaming of the far-off Palm ; of the old Hemlock sighing for some Indian dryad of its youth; of the Pine whispering a saga of a sea-fight and a storm.

Garden and Forest, Volume 5 edited by Charles Sprague Sargent

IT is on the day before Christmas, and the dear little mountain village is almost buried in sparkling, pure-driven snow—a marvelous vision in white, with its fieckless beauty still accentuated by the sapphire blue of the sky, the healthy sepia-tan of the chalets, and the somber green 0f the stately pines.
That indescribany sweet perfume of the Christmas season floats through the air, and every bush and tree wears proudly the dazzling decorations which nature has so lavishly provided in her own artistic designs. We behold a new world, gloriously beautiful and humble in spirit at the same time; a world full of mystic charm, as it appears now in the delicate illumination of a crescent moon and its endless company of stars.
St. Nicholas, Volume 49, Part 1

And so the winter days go by. The storehouse contains a barrel of nuts, and another of pop-corn, and if it is baking day, the men huddle about the stove, and complacently test the fragrant cakes and pies as they come out of the oven deliciously brown and appetizing.
If the weather is not too cold for the horses, they decide upon a visit to a friend some miles distant, and when all are packed up in shawls and blankets, the big bob-sled, surmounted by the wagon-box, draws up before the house, and the party clamber in promiscuously, and settle down upon the soft fragrant hay which makes as soft a cushion as one could wish for. O! there is nothing so charming as this jolly way of sleigh-riding, which is a thousand times more smooth and satisfactory than bumping along in a modern high-backed cutter. If you are cold, just bury your head in " mother's lap" and your feet in the section of hay-stack under you, and you won't be so long.
Juanita and Other Sketches
 By Jennie L. Hopkins

The white world ever remains a little remote and ghostly, scarce an intimate, unless we can subdue it by our energy and pluck. It is good to get out and wade when the dainty down quilt is still untouched by the least speck of soilure, to note the ripples and markings of delicate wave work on the uplands, the low relief sculpture of the storm, fit to instruct artists in the light and graceful touch of the chisel. In those first hours the new fallen snow scatters a fragrance in the air to be compared with wafts from a rose garden. It is so delicate and dainty, we are half intoxicated by its perfume. Whence does it come? By what alembic is it distilled? The scientists have not revealed to us the secret. The spruces and pines and
hemlocks and cedars, with their loaded boughs, have perhaps made us the present of this winter fragrance. We dream of great stretches of evergreen forests in their dim spectral loveliness, of the majesty of great snow plains, of mountains crowding the horizon, shouldering each other in their glittering robes, with shadows of mauve and blue and purple of unearthly softness and depth.
Augusta Larned 

Even in the Alps one may still taste of such snow solitude, though we reach it by the funicular railway, with tourists, instead of seers, for our companions. Down in the valley we have left hot summer and roses. Then presently we lose the sunshine, and are being shot up through a realm of icy cloud. But soon we are aware of a growing happy lightness in the air, and an indescribable perfume, ethereally delicate. It is the perfume of snow, and soon it comes to us blended with the fragrance of sweet violets as we emerge into sunlight again at the top of the world. That perfume of the snow—the odor of the sanctity of the snow. Perhaps the spring of water of the Fount of Immortality breathers a similar balm as it brims up in the hidden garden at the back of the sunrise. But nothing else on earth has a smell so aerially sweet. They know it who, in the afternoon, have left the spring behind in Oregon, and, as the blue-black starlit night fills the gorges of the Sierra Nevada, feel a marvelous cool freshness about them, and looking through the car windows, face what seems a pyramid of moonlight and smell the snow of Mount Shasta: till morning comes bringing soft valleys again and the narcissus aflower and San Francisco.
Harper's Magazine, Volume 130-1915

In some places during the winter snow fell upon these mountains to the depth of twenty feet; and to have waited until the snow should melt would have kept all visitors away from the Yosemite until late in June. But here we are, among the pines and cedars; and, oh, the loveliness and grandeur of the stately columns, two hundred feet in height, and straight as an arrow, losing themselves in a crown of misty foliage, while others stand burnt and dead, telling of forest fires. The air is scented with the delicious fragrance of the pines; for the ground is carpeted with the needles and dried cones, and the hot sun draws from them the aroma which we breathe in, feeling that every breath gives health as well as fragrance.The New England Magazine, Volume 3-1891