SOUTH RAIN 



hours before! It was all the vast range 

 between Arctic winter night and soft 

 summer sunshine. The owl had voiced the 

 savage grumble of the winter, the blue- 

 bird caroled the gentle promise of the 

 spring. 



The promise may be long in rinding its 

 fulfilment, of course. The snow may lie 

 deep and the frost nip the willow catkins, 

 though little they '11 care for that, 

 and the bluebirds may be driven more 

 than once to the deep shelter of the cedar 

 swamp, but that does not take away the 

 promise that came on the wings of the 

 south wind, the promise that set the 

 great horned owl to laying her eggs in 

 that abandoned crow's nest, and that made 

 the bluebirds seek the ancient apple tree 

 as their very first perch. March is no 

 spring month, in spite of the " Old 

 Farmer's Almanack." It is just a blank 

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