MINSTREL WEATHER 



pay heavily for their premature debut. 

 But they are all gray now. In March 

 they show a cloudy crimson and yellow 

 not alone of the final blossom, but of their 

 fur. There are plenty of scarlet rose hips 

 in uplifted clusters, for the birds some- 

 how neglect them while they pursue other 

 delicacies of the same color and contour. 

 Nature has probably told the winter chip- 

 pies that rose hips are no good spring dec- 

 orations must not be pilfered by the snow 

 sprites. Puffballs have broken off from old 

 logs, and in walking through low woods 

 you may step on one here and there, 

 awakening the fancy that the world is 

 burning, under its sad cloak of sepia leaves, 

 and sending up small puffs of smoke to 

 warn those who have trodden it in love 

 and comprehension. 



When the winsome skies turn stony, 

 and melancholy winter rain ends in chill 

 mist, January has days to breathe whose 

 air is like breathing under water, down in 

 spring-cold lake, where the incredible, 

 pleasureless fishes move through their gray 

 element, finding pallid amusement perhaps 

 in nudging frogs and turtles, well tucked 

 up under a blanket of mud. They are 

 [4] 



