CHAPTER VIII 



SETBACKS 



| OLD and snow, however exhilarating 

 and beautiful, cannot last forever; 

 and it is well they cannot, for toward 

 the end of February, when the sun 

 begins to run higher and rise earlier, one feels 

 a strange longing for a breath of the spring, for 

 a smell of the moist earth. 



But March comes, frequently with deceptive 

 mildness, when the streets run rivers of muddy 

 water, the snow turns dull and dingy, the earth 

 appears in sheltered, sunny places on the banking, 

 the English sparrows fight and chatter and shriek 

 in the naked trees, and in the evening the drip, 

 drip, drip of water from the eaves lulls one to rest 

 with dreams of spring. 



But in the morning what a change has taken 

 place ! A bitter wind roars like a lion in the trees, 

 the air seems full of needles, the sun shines 

 brightly, but does not warm. Not a sparrow is in 

 sight. Huddled behind blinds and shutters and 

 whatever serves as a shelter from the searching 

 wind, they puff themselves into balls of feathers, 

 and wait for warmer weather. 



