THE 

 ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



MARCH GREY-FACE 



IT is a struggle to leave bed at seven, but we are 

 fixed for a train and it must be done. When the 

 fishing appointment was made, we were in St. 

 Valentine's summer. We dreamed of a sunny day 

 on the lake wherein the big pike lurk, and we 

 thought more of the high blue dome and a ring of 

 green-dotted trees than of the nominal object of the 

 excursion. To-day the morning sun is here, but the 

 history of yesterday and several yesterdays assures 

 us that clouds will be our midday portion. More- 

 over, the world has an icing of new snow, hardened 

 by the rigour that almost glued us to the bed. 



We can at any rate change the venue from lake 

 to river. In two hours the almost unspecked blue 

 of morning has become an unbroken cloud of grey. 

 There is none of the light that the grass loves to 

 play with, and field and marsh, and the bare-twigged 

 trees, might almost have been painted from the same 

 brush. It daunts not nor damps the pike-fisher. In 

 fact, he rejoices while he fixes up his rod at the 

 amber muddiness of the water. There is just so 

 much colour in the stream as he likes to see, not so 

 much as to make his lure far to seek, just enough 

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