claude monet paintings

treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its
utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it
made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to
rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as
the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path. Far
and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now
browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the
This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the
middle, I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field. Gathering
my mantle about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel
the cold, though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice
covering the causeway, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had
overflowed after a rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could
look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was the
principal object in the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery