THE NAMELESS SEASON 



throbbing again in slow and accelerated 

 pulsations of evasive sound through the 

 unroofed arches of the woodlands. And 

 one may hear, wondering where the poor 

 vagrants find food and water, the wild 

 clangor of the geese trumpeting their 

 aerial northward march, and the quick 

 whistle of the wild duck's pinions, hear 

 the carol of an untimely bluebird and the 

 disconsolate yelp of a robin ; but yet it is 

 not spring. 



Presently comes a great downfall of 

 snow, making the earth beautiful again 

 with a whiteness outshining that of the 

 winter that is past. The damp flakes 

 cling to every surface, and clothe wall, 

 fence and tree, field and forest, with a 

 more radiant mantle than the dusty snow 

 and slanted sunshine of winter gave them. 



There is nothing hopeful of spring but 

 a few meagre signs, and the tradition that 

 spring has always come heretofore. 



It is not winter, it is not spring, but a 

 season with an individuality as marked as 

 either, yet without a name. 

 4 



