She Bay of he Land 
all, for they do not make him uncomfortable. The 
round year is four changes of clothes —and a tank- 
sprinkled, snow-choked, smoke-clouded, cobble-paved, 
wheel-wracked, street-scented, wire-lighted half-day, 
half-night something, that is neither spring, summer, 
autumn, nor winter. 
A city is a sore on the face of Nature; not a dan- 
gerous, ugly sore, necessarily, if one can get out of 
it often enough and far enough, but a sore, neverthe- 
less, that Nature will have nothing kindly to do with. 
The snows that roof my sheds with Carrara, that 
robe my trees with ermine, that spread close and 
warm over my mowing, that call out the sleds and 
the sleigh-bells, fall into the city streets as mud, as 
danger on the city roofs, — as a nuisance over the 
city’s length and breadth, a nuisance to be hauled 
off and dumped into the harbor as fast as shovels 
and carts can move it. 
But you cannot dump your winter and send it off 
to sea. There is no cure for winter in a tip-cart; no 
cure in the city. There is consolation in the city, for 
there is plenty of company in the misery. But com- 
pany really means more of the misery. If life is to 
be endured, if all that one can do with winter is to 
46 
