CHAPTER III 



"I HAVE never been in the country in Spring be- 

 fore," said a visitor to our town, contemplating my pink 

 apple trees against their backing of pine, and sniffing 

 ecstatically. 



"But, Madame," said I, "you have not been in the 

 country in Spring this time." 



It would have been a shame to rob her of her joy, had 

 there been a chance that she would believe me. Of 

 course, she did not. Yet actually the best part of 

 Spring is over before the apple blossoms come. My 

 summer neighbours who open their places in May to 

 enjoy this season, and who suppose the "hardships" of 

 a mountain Winter to be almost unendurable, would 

 scarcely recognize Spring at all when it first arrives. 

 Its skirmishers would seem to them like another phase of 

 Winter, perhaps, or at any rate something disagreeable 

 and to be avoided, such as March mud. It is almost a 

 sign of Spring for us when we have to carry wax in our 

 pockets on a ski run, applying it frequently. It is a 

 sign of Spring when the runner ruts on the roads begin 

 to fill with slush at mid-day, and bare patches appear on 



85 



