The Frozen Fountain 131 



house seems immense, and cold, though I 

 feel the warm air pouring through the regis- 

 ter and a wood fire roars and crackles in the 

 open fireplace. I am mistaken. The room 

 is not cold, and a greater fear oppresses me. 

 The sense of chill must be in my heart. 

 Even the glow of a wood fire may not reach 

 the soul's hiding-place. 



I resolve to take a ride. The sweet breath 

 of the morning, the warmth of my mare's 

 glistening back, the quick beat of her hoof, 

 the pride of her arched neck, and the 

 rhythmic union of my life with hers in the 

 sport we both love — yes, it will warm me. 



And then I remember that the snow is 

 piled in drifts and my Bess is from the 

 far Southland, a shining child of the sun. 

 Snow is the only thing in all nature's pranks 

 that frightens her. When her footfall comes 

 back muffled, and the packed snow from her 

 shoes begins to strike her breast and flanks, 

 the big, half -human eyes turn and look back 



