The Kambles of an Idler 



into the fresh air, cheered by the swelling leaf- 

 buds, stimulated by the odor of the juicy turf 

 and by sight of that first fruit of the promised 

 spring, skunk cabbage, gorgeously arrayed. 

 These are the belongings, so to speak, of the 

 cawing of the crow. The long, dreary winter 

 through, the crow has hinted of them, and now 

 there is exultation over the hint made good. 

 There may be rugged winter yet for three more 

 weeks. The almanac promises that, but the 

 crows rise above such soulless mathematics and 

 declare it is spring now. Liars, every one of 

 them, but what of that? Are their feathers 

 black because of this grievous fault? We 

 would miss much if we did not occasionally de- 

 ceive ourselves. The Winter that is yet lying 

 in wait for the poor rambler can have his full 

 swing and welcome, when he can get it. I, 

 for one, will not complain, but to-day the south 

 wind holds him back and I will have my in- 

 nings. There is a suggestion of the new order 

 and with so slight a tool as this I will build a 

 castle that will last me for the passing hour. 

 If a day-dream is so vivid that it has all the 

 charm of reality, pray, what value over it, has 

 the reality? I am as happy as the crows about 



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