THE ROAD TO MUDDY POND 



A WO days of greedy south wind had 

 licked up the crisp snow till all the fields 

 and southerly slopes were bare. Then 

 came the lull before the north wind should 

 come back, a lull in which you had but 

 to sniff the air to smell the coming 

 spring; its faint perfume crisped with a 

 frosty odor that lured the senses like a 

 flavor of stephanotis frappe. It was a 

 day that tempts a man to take staff and 

 scrip and climb the hills due south to 

 meet the romance the two days' wind has 

 brought from far down the map, perhaps 

 from Venezuela and the highlands that 

 border the banks of Orinoco. By noon 

 the north wind will be driving it back 

 again, though bits of it will still be tangled 

 in southerly facing corners of the hills. 



