FEBRUARY 



THE SNOWY MOON 



A LTHOUGH it is February, I would not 

 ** leave town if I could. It is the one 

 month in which the most enthusiastic gardener 

 is as well off here as elsewhere, and the 

 friendly streets and sheltering walls are no 

 bad substitute for melting snowfields and 

 sudden, revolutionary conditions of the mer- 

 cury, which, one hour giving a hint of spring, 

 in the next bids us think of the Glacial Period 

 and our steps. February is certainly the ugly 

 duckling of the year's brood, and nobody cares 

 much for his company. Everybody gives him 

 a peck and an ill word, and everybody grudges 

 him even the eight-and-twenty days given him 

 by the calendar men, and considers himself 

 insulted when 



" Leap year makes it twenty-nine." 



It is a time for books and for plans. Books 

 may be read anywhere, our plans may be made 



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