An Outlook on Winter 163 



death. The winter was only a season of wait- 

 ing, 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 materials 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 long- 

 ing 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 brook and I grew farther apart. 

 We are coming together again now. It is no 

 misdemeanor to get wet if you feel that you are 

 not spoiling your clothing. One's happiness is 

 largely a question of clothes. 



