AN OUTLOOK ON WINTER 125 



might see it again. I longed for the earthy smell 

 when the snow settled away and left bare brown 

 margins along its banks. I watched for the suckers 

 that came up from the river to spawn. I made a 

 note when the first frog peeped. I waited for the 

 unfolding spray to soften the bare trunks. I 

 watched the greening of the banks and looked 

 eagerly for the bluebird when I heard his curling 

 note somewhere high in the air. 



Yet, with all my familiarity with this brook, I did 

 not know it in the winter. Its pathway up into the 

 winter woods was as unexplored as the arctic 

 regions. Somehow, it was not a brook in the 

 winter time. It was merely a dreary waste, as cold 

 and as forbidding as death. The winter was only 

 a season of waiting, and spring was always late. 



Many years have come and gone since then. My 

 affection for the brook gave way to a study of plants 

 and animals and stones. For years I was absorbed 

 in phenomena. But now mere phenomena and 

 things have slipped into a secondary place, and the 

 old boyhood slowly reasserts itself. I am sure that 

 I know the brook the better because I know more 

 about the things that live in its little world; yet 

 that same mystery pervades it and there is that same 

 longing for the things that lie beyond. I remember 

 that in the old days I did not mind the rain and 

 the sleet when visiting the brook. I was not 

 conscious that they were not a part of the brook 

 itself. It was only when I began to dress up that 

 the rain annoyed me. I must make a proper 

 appearance before the world. From that time, the 



