Winter has become irksome. We now would 
step out of our open doors into the freshness of 
a new year of birds and blossoms — eager for 
every awakening impulse, every sweet and restful — 
thought. For these we wait. 
Meantime winter, sly and menacing, holds fast 
to the skirt of spring, but, notwithstanding, she 
comes. The sun rides higher, the day is longer, 
the biting winds less keen, and the fleece-white 
snows melt with the slightest rise in temperature 
and race for the valley below. 
“Here again, here, here, here, happy year! 
O warble unchidden, unbidden! 
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 
And all the winters are hidden.” 
March, 1909. 
42 
