AFTER FROST 



i HEN comes the wine of the 

 year. What though flowers 

 are nipped and summer birds 

 all gone, the world lies lapped 

 in liquid melting haze, the 

 scent of fruit and corn comes keen from 

 field and orchard ; over all, soft, late sun- 

 shine sifts in long, low, slanting lines. 

 Frost itself is cruel. It comes heralded 

 maybe by a thunder-gust ; there is the pour 

 of big drops or the pitiless pelting of hail, 

 a vivid flash or two, and crashing peals over- 

 head. Then out of the northwest sweeps 

 something keen and deadly. The clouds 

 vanish. All night long that biting breath 

 sweeps over the face of earth. At dawn 

 the world looks much the same, only flow- 

 ers and creepers are oddly stiff. Half an 

 hour of sunshine shows what havoc has 

 been wrought. Summer lies in ashes, with 

 hardly a rose left for her bier. 



All day the sharp wind blows, and for 



