FEBRUARY DAYS 



yellow currents deepen and divide more 

 widely their banks, the noise of their 

 onflow fills the air like an exaggeration 

 of the murmur of pines, and the song of 

 the pines swells and falls with the vary- 

 ing wind. 



After the rain there come, perhaps, 

 some hours of quiet sunshine or star- 

 light, and then out of the north a nipping 

 wind that hardens the surface of the 

 snow into solid crust that delights your 

 feet to walk upon. The rivulets shrink 

 out of sight again, leaving no trace but 

 water-worn furrows in the snow, some 

 frozen fluffs of yellow foam and stranded 

 leaves and twigs, grass and broken weeds. 

 The broad pools have left their shells of 

 unsupported ice, which with frequent 

 sudden crashes shatters down upon their 

 hollow beds. 



When the crust has invited you forth, 

 you cannot retrace your way upon it, 

 and the wild snow walkers make no 

 record now of their recent wanderings. 

 But of those who fared abroad before 

 this solid pavement was laid upon the 

 snow, fabulous tales are now inscribed 

 upon it. Reading them without ques- 

 267 



