The Black Swans 



the early spring. And while I think of 

 it: if you have a Rambler rose to 

 which you are specially attached, and 

 it is growing all over the front of your 

 pergola, decking it in beauty every 

 June, and you do not want it winter- 

 killed and you leave it to some "nut" 

 to take care of in the fall, and he does 

 it up splendidly in corn-stalks, and 

 a cold and cruel winter puts the rab- 

 bits hard to it for existence, and the 

 "bunnies" eat all the bark off poor 

 Dorothy Perkins's stems, and you 

 find the rabbit's nest still there in 

 April — but no rabbits — and your rose- 

 vine is dead as the prophets, and you 

 are sore and sad, do not kick anybody 

 or anything except yourself for an 

 unconscionable idiot for permitting so 

 silly a bit of fool preparedness. You do 

 not miss your rose until it's dead, and 

 even the least of "blessings brighten 

 as they take their flight." 



The winter you must understand 

 has been spent in town in the surly 

 [16] 



