“Painted in winter of 1945. A rather unusual history for a canvas. A painting that is practically duplicate of Beginning to Snow (which see). This latter canvas was bought in 1944 by Miss Emma Coombs and presented to Rev. William Cole. Needing such a painting for my approaching G.C.A.G. show in New York, I got the permission from the owners of making a duplicate in design, subject etc. The duplicate I made in the studio, partially from the photograph of the original, but mostly from the model itself, outside my north window. It went to my G.C.A.G exhibition in N. Y. in April of 1945 but did not sell. The G.C.A.G. kept it for nearly three years, returning it to me in Nov. 1947. This Snow in the Air was reproduced in color in the article about me and my studio by Mr. Watson in ‘American Artist’ of October, 1946, and later was printed in color in the Grand Central Art Galleries beautiful catalogue of the 25th Anniversary Exhibition in the fall of 1947 —but was erroneously given the title of the first canvas namely Beginning to Snow. Thus there was quite a mix-up of titles over the affair. The two color reproductions (mentioned above) entitled Beginning to Snow are really of this canvas Snow in the Air. Sold to Howard M. Hanna,Cleveland, Ohio, in April, 1953.”
"Snow in the Air is one of the coldest paintings that I have ever seen yet not a blue shadow on the canvas. Whittier's 'Snowbound' does not tell us as much about the devastating bleakness of a New England winter as this gray little canvas."
The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-b;ood in the sharpened face
The coming of the snow storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar
Of Occan on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air,
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the st alls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows:
Heard the horse whinning for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn.
Impatient down the stanchcion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
and down his querulous challenge sent.