A short ways from the road were many cornshocks, looking like hobbling bent over old men, the frost for white hair, beyond, a few whitened trees stood forth prominently from the mist as tho extending a welcome hand to all comers.  In a break in the mist I could catch a faint suggestion of a few grey beech trees of Beech Hill.  The “welcome hand” of the few prominent trees, I found to be unnecessary to induce anyone to enter the domain of frost.  Anyone with eyes – appreciative eyes – could not have been torn from the scenes so beautiful and luring was it.  Entering Hawthorne Swamp, the sight of that beautiful old elm with its graceful drooping white branches tempted one to go further into the concealing mists for more wonders.  As I walked on the mists seemed to magically disperse, retreating to just beyond the border of the swamp.  What a place of magic this really was.  When I looked out over the white grass, and whitened weeds, bushes and trees, I was impressed with its beauty and wierdness, and when I saw that mists shut out the view on every hand, I wondered if I had been transferred to some unknown place by witchery.  Only distant resounding tones of church bells