A SPRING HOLIDAY 



The day was still young- when we reached the 

 town where we were to mount our wheels and 

 cross the intervening hills to the inn which was 

 our destination. As we sped down the long white Joy of mo- 

 road the last remnant of care slipped from us and 

 we abandoned ourselves completely to the pure 

 joy of swift motion and bounding blood. 1 say 

 completely, but I am wrong, for, even when coast- 

 ing down a hill, the sliding, misty, sun-bathed 

 landscape is part of one's consciousness ; and so 

 are the shrill-voiced frogs, the lisping, uncertain 

 birds, and the butterflies that chase each other into 

 the sky for the mere fun of the thing. 



And when we were not coasting down a hill, 

 but pursuing a fairly moderate pace along a level 

 road, we noted even the details of the wayside, 

 contrasting the silver-green catkins of the fertile Wayside 

 willows with the golden tassels of the sterile, ex- deiaih 

 ulting in the glossy green limbs of the speckled 

 alder, guessing at the circumference of the great 

 elm which marks a turn in the road, sympathizing 

 with the yellow-haired children who had brought 

 out into the sunlight their tailless wooden horses 

 and their ragged dolls, for joy of the perfect 



Then came a hill too steep to climb save on foot, 

 affording a chance to peer over the stone wall and 

 wonder why this part of the world was so back- 



45 



