/IBs XlCWnter ©arben 



begun. We left the blue jays, muffled 

 and ill-tempered, jeering in the bare hedge 

 of bois d'arc at Sherwood Place, where but 

 lately the grackles and robins made a great 

 din on the eve of migration. Two days 

 ago, bear in mind, wrapped to the eyes 

 in fur of otter and seal, gasping against 

 the ringing, frost-spiked strokes of a 

 norther, we gave chase to the migrating 

 thrushes; and now I loll drowsily by the 

 Gulf-side, making note of some gray peli- 

 cans striking mullet in the tepid surf- waves 

 five rods from the beach. Beside a wall 

 of shell concrete, crumbling and vine- 

 matted, great rusty yellow oranges still 

 hang on a tree. In the yaupon overhead 

 are masses of scarlet berries, temptingly 

 fresh and luscious in appearance, but bitter 

 as disappointment can be. 



The season is winter; a weather report 

 in the morning paper tells of five de- 

 grees below zero at some point in Wis- 

 consin, and of a blizzard spinning down 

 from Canada across country to the Wa- 

 bash and the Kankakee ; and yet my 

 nostrils realize what the violets spill and 



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