CHAPTER XII 



THE FROZEN FOUNTAIN 



All day the wind has been blowing from 

 the north, and dull grey clouds cover the sky. 



I awake at home in the morning to find my 

 Southland clothed in the ermine robe of the 

 North more dazzling in beauty, true; but 

 cold, still, white and deathlike. 



The green leaves of the magnolias bend 

 and curve and shrink under their burden, 

 and their satin finger-tips flash with a strange 

 brilliance against the snow's canvas. 



The berries of the holly seem groups of 

 tiny altar candles smothered beneath the 

 storm's blanket. 



When the first boyish exhilaration passes 

 the inheritance of childhood's memories 

 a feeling of sadness creeps over me. The 



