IX 
IS IT WINTER? 
IT is winter, according to the almanac, and the 
dates on the Northern newspapers that come regu- 
larly and too often. For the newspaper is a sort of 
inverted anachronism here where Hfe is a good half- 
century behind the times. Why waste the golden 
hours reading things that by the time we catch up 
with the world will have been happily forgotten by 
everybody? The leaves have fallen, but it does not 
look like winter, the laurel is so green on the slopes 
and the pine trees are so sunny, while the uninvited 
mistletoe burdens the oaks with its pale-green form. 
Birds are singing — the wren always believes it will 
be summer to-morrow, and comports himself ac- 
cordingly. The air acquires a sparkling quality, with- 
out wholly losing its softness. 
The native people speak of the coming of winter 
as a calamity, and you, too, half dread the cold that 
is to pinch, and yet does not come. But one day it 
does come. The wind howls, the air is icy, and your 
blood chills. You fill the fireplace with logs, and re- 
sign yourself to the inevitable. But in three days you 
are out without a hat. How warm the sun, how deli- 
cious the air ! And was there ever such color on the 
mountains! One has a rare surprise in this color of 
the winter mountains. They remain so warm and 
