IV 



The Yellow Valley 



WE were on our way to the Yellow Valley. 

 We had been pushing against the wind, 

 through the red March mud of a ploughed 

 field. Mud is a very good thing in its place, 

 and if its place is not a ploughed field in 

 March, I know of no better. But it does not 

 encourage lightness of foot. At an especially 

 big and burly gust of wind I stopped, turned 

 my back for respite, and dropped into the lee 

 of Jonathan. Wind is a good thing, too, in its 

 place, but one does not care to drown in it. 



&quot;Jonathan,&quot; I gasped, &quot;this is n t spring; 

 it s winter of the most furious description. 

 Let s reform the calendar and put up signs 

 to warn the flowers. But I want my spring! 

 I want it now!&quot; 



&quot;Well,&quot; said Jonathan, &quot;there it is. Look!&quot; 

 And he pointed across the brush of the near 

 fence line, where a meadow stretched away, 

 brown with the stubble and matted tangle of 



