SPRING 67 



eyes. The cook is an artificer; but we 

 forgive and even encourage him in his in- 

 ventions. But what is the meaning of our 

 rugs, our pottery, our pictures, our jewels, 

 our morocco bindings, our implements of 

 brass and silver, our patterned upholstery, 

 our wall-papers, if not to afford color- 

 equivalents of leaf, flower, water, rock, dis- 

 tance, and sunset ? So we employ artists 

 at many cunning trades, solely to keep our 

 heads above the social swim by color-call- 

 ings to our souls. A set of Chinese single- 

 color porcelains makes, as near as may be, 

 an epitome of the chromatics of the outer 

 world. While they are on our shelves our 

 eyes are not forlorn. 



Winter is not an offense to me, even in 

 town. They say it is kind of me not to 

 object to it. There is a keen delight in 

 fighting a north wind, in wading through 

 snow, in feeling the tingle of blood that 

 such a wrestle sends through one. And 

 the beauty of snow, the silver of it, the 

 shine of it, the stillness of it, the health of it, 

 freezing and smothering the evil fraternity 

 of microbes these are not to be gain- 



