Evening star., 1932-12-14
THIS AND THAT
BY CHARLES E. TRACEWELL.

would It still have been lovely to us?
| Is beauty In the thing seen, or in
what our eyes do to 1t?
| Do our eyes make the beauty, or does
beauty exist for and In itself?
These questions, as simple as they
seem, plunge one deeply into meta
physics and philosophy. to say nothing
of science.
All that and all that!
Surely all that would be too complex
on such q morning, when Nature has
spread out white cloak over all
things, Transforming the familiar into
the unfamiliar, giving touches Of beauty
| to honestly utilitarian structures and
things.
One does not have to be a meta
physician, philosopher, nor yet o
scientist, to enjoy a snowy day.
All one has to do Is look.
| If out in it, one adds to the fun by
taking part in 1t, physically becoming
a portion, as 1t were, OF the very snow
itself.
This will be bit strenuous for
some, especially on a q,fiet Sunday, If
the snow falls on that day.
| In fact, it may be believed by such
that the best part of the storm Is to
be seen only from the vantage point
Of the windowseat.
When one is out In the thick Of 1t,
the finer points may be missed.
One cannot see the snow for the
fakes, to paraphrase an old saying
Out there one is too busy blowing
ones nose, and trying to keep ones
fingers warm, to have an adequate
comprehension Of the sheer artistry Of
yonder garage, with its sugar icing.
Memory suddenly blows up visions Of
little honest structures in the rear
yards of country towns. transformed in
snowstorms to miniature palaces, roof
ed with thick slabs of sparkling jewels.
Now one gazes out at garage,
plain thing, ordinarily, but today
adorned with downy roof seeming as
light as a feather, but in reality as
heavy as water. And water weighs
some eight and third pounds to the
gallon.
A day such as this makes trees stand
out, literally and figuratively. Even
those varieties which are not all that
they might be, in comparison with their
betters, today become things Of true
beauty, proud giants Of the plant world.
Their rough limbs show beneath,
where the snow has not managed to
lodge. The tall trunks are darker than
usual against the universal whiteness,
or lack of color.
| And again one resents, at least in
wardly, the fact that white is not q
color. but rather absence of color.
Not colora
| What could be more colorful, what
is more colorful. than this spreading
snow, lending enchantment, especially
] where untrodden. to what before was
| partly a man-made scene.
| Now that nature has taken q hand,
or rather, another hand, in the land
scape. the observer sees that she is, in
fact and truth, the real beauty maker.
Without her there Is no beauty. nor
any approach thereto. The Roman
poet Lucretius said the same thing
1000 years ago; he used the name Of
| Venus, but he meant Mother Nature.
Many Of her faces are beautiful to
us. until man come along to mar them.
Even the most beautiful OF his crea-
tions somehow has certain fussiness
about it, as If he were not quite sure
how to proceed.
Nature is not that way What she
does, she does on lavish scale, and
without any hesitancy at all.
Behold the snowl
| Not as white as 1t used to be?
| Bless you, old man, it is twice as
| white, and we hope you will live to see
1t even whittier, and that all Of us WILL