FTOURS OF SPRING. II 
large enough to creep in, the gipsy woman had borne 
twins in the midst of the snow and frost. They could 
not make a fire of the heath and gorse even if they cut 
it, the snow and whirling winds would not permit. The 
old gipsy said if they had little food they could not do 
without fire, and they were compelled to get coke and 
coal somehow—apologising for such a luxury. There 
was no whining—not a bit of it; they were evidently 
quite contented and happy, and the old woman proud of 
her daughter’s hardihood. By-and-by the husband came 
round with straw beehives to sell, and cane to mend 
chairs—a strong, respectable-looking man. Of all the 
north wind drove to the door, the outcasts were the best 
off—much better off than the cottager who was willing 
to break his spade to earn a shilling ; much better off 
than the white-haired labourer, whose strength was spent, 
and who had not even a friend to watch with him in the 
dark hours of the winter evening—not even a fire to rest 
by. The gipsy nearest to the earth was the best off in 
every way; yet not even for primitive man and woman 
did the winds cease. Broad flakes of snow drifted up 
against the low tent, beneath which the babes were 
nestling to the breast. Not even for the babes did the 
snow cease or the keen wind rest; the very fire could 
scarcely struggle against it. Snow-rain and ice-rain; 
frost-formed snow-granules, driven along like shot, sting- 
ing and rattling against the tent-cloth, hissing in the 
fire; roar and groan of the great wind among the oaks 
of the forest. No kindness to man, from birth-hour to 
ending; neither earth, sky, nor gods care for him, innocent 
at the mother’s breast. Nothing good to man but man. 
et man, then, leave his gods and lift up. his ideal beyond 
them. 
Something grey and spotted and puffy, not unlike a 
