Above them the brook
fell from a rock shelf, narrow and high as a man's head. The fall
was muted to a low murmur under its vault of ice.
"Come, Paul," said Trove, as he lifted the small boy; "here's a
castle of King Frost. There are thousands in his family, and he's
many castles. Building new ones every day somewhere. Goes north
in the spring, and when he moves out they begin to rot and tumble."
He cleared a space for the boy to stand upon. Then he brushed away
the snow blanket flung loosely over the vault of ice. A wonderful
bit of masonry stood exposed. Near its centre were two columns,
large and rugose, each tapering to a capital and cornice. Between
them was a deep lattice of crystal. Some bars were clear, some
yellow as amber, and all were powdered over with snow, ivory-white.
Under its upper part they could see a grille of frostwork,
close-wrought, glistening, and white. It was the inner gate of the
castle, and each ray of light, before entering, had to pay a toll
of its warmth. On either side was a rough wall of ice, with here
and there a barred window. The snow cleared away, they could hear
the song of falling water. The teacher put his ear to the ice
wall.
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