THE MEADOW LARKS 79 
possessors of the “Yea, verily,” and when they 
bewilder the sunlight with their happy laughter 
and make you think that in them sunlight is 
come to song or in meadow larks songs are come 
to sunshine, who could be sophist and remain 
dubitant? 
Spring has come to stay. We shall be visited 
by no more wild and winter weather. Hail to 
the gentle spring! 
The next morning I awake and the wild wind 
has awakened before me. The curtain is lifted 
in a jiffy. The whirl of a snow storm fills the 
sky. I cannot see across the block adjacent. 
The meadow with the orchard where yesterday 
the larks were rioting with song is this day 
rioted over with a stormy wind. The lustihood 
of the storm is contagious. I feel the fury in 
my blood. Where is spring? How many zons 
ago did it vanish? Will it ever come again? 
Winter has come with jubilance to stay. No 
meadow lark sings to-day. No meadow lark is 
anywhere in sight. They are ashamed of their 
prognostications, maybe. Where are they, any- 
how? But ’tis bootless to inquire. It is like 
asking where is Dr. Cook. Silence is the only 
answer. How the wind and the snow boil! The 
world is storm swept. This is no half-hearted, 
palsied effort of decrepit winter to let on he is 
in his frosty prime. All the day that storm raged 
with uninterrupted fury. Fury was the word. 
No other would name the day. Spirals of snow 
