MARCH WINDS 



anchored personal belongings go mad 

 with the March hare and still thrid the 

 sombre boskage of the wood with sunny 

 thought and no venom beneath his tongue, 

 ought to be President. Even the New York 

 papers could not make him bring suit. 



And after the two days of gale how 

 sweet the serenity that came to the 

 thrashed and winnowed pastures and 

 woodland. I fancy it all feeling like a 

 boy at school who, after being soundly 

 flogged, gets back to the soothing calm 

 of his accustomed seat. There is a gentle 

 joy about that feeling that, as many of 

 us know, has neither alloy nor equal. The 

 whole woodland, thus spanked and put 

 away to cool, feels the winter of its dis- 

 content vanishing behind it and has no 

 room in its heart for aught but the peace 

 and joy of regeneration. 



The gale began to fail during the second 

 45 



