of t$t 



all, for they do not make him uncomfortable. The 

 round year is four changes of clothes and a tank- 

 sprinkled, snow-choked, smoke-clouded, cobble-paved, 

 wheel-wracked, street-scented, wire-lighted half-day, 

 half-night something, that is neither spring, summer, 

 autumn, nor winter. 



A city is a sore on the face of Nature ; not a dan- 

 gerous, ugly sore, necessarily, if one can get out of 

 it often enough and far enough, but a sore, neverthe- 

 less, that Nature will have nothing kindly to do with. 

 The snows that roof my sheds with Carrara, that 

 robe my trees with ermine, that spread close and 

 warm over my mowing, that call out the sleds and 

 the sleigh-bells, fall into the city streets as mud, as 

 danger on the city roofs, as a nuisance over the 

 city's length and breadth, a nuisance to be hauled 

 off and dumped into the harbor as fast as shovels 

 and carts can move it. 



But you cannot dump your winter and send it off 

 to sea. There is no cure for winter in a tip-cart ; no 

 cure in the city. There is consolation in the city, for 

 there is plenty of company in the misery. But com- 

 pany really means more of the misery. If life is to 

 be endured, if all that one can do with winter is to 



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