OUR COUNTRY LIFE 



Where is the captain? Why does n't he turn around?" 

 I hold my breath for the crash which seems unescapable, 

 when — lightly as a bird the boat swings around on the 

 homeward tack for further races with the startled crows. 



Now comes the January thaw, that singular interval 

 of warmth when the air is hushed and the sky is gray, 

 and when the whole feeling of the atmosphere is one of 

 expectancy. Will it snow? Will it rain? Will the 

 sun shine? Will the north wind blow? But for days 

 the aspect does not vary, the thermometer lingering be- 

 tween 25 and 35. At night the trees are black against 

 the remnants of melting snow and the grass is positively 

 green in spots where it peeps through. But in the 

 morning another world appears. That dew of winter, 

 the hoar frost, has not only outlined every living thing 

 with its white fingers, but changed the most sordid and 

 ugly objects into things of beauty. The brown burlap 

 over the terrace wall is transformed into cloth of silver; 

 and even the straw of the fertilizer has become a fine 

 metallic network. 



An enchanted forest! Under a gray sky in absolute 



260 



