122 WINTER 



my face of the first February rain ! The little trout 

 brook below me foams and sometimes overruns the 

 road, and as its small noise ascends the hill, I can 

 hear the wind on a great river, the wash of waves 

 against a narrow bank, and the muffled roar of quak- 

 ing sluices as when a February freshet is on. 



