Sleigh bells wrangle from early morning
till late at night, and every step is quick and alert. In the city,
smoke dims its clarity, but it is welcome.
But its greatest moment of domination is spring. The bitter gray
wind of the East has held unchecked rule for days, giving place to
its brother the North wind only at intervals, till some day in March
the wind of the southwest begins to blow. Then the eaves begin to
drip. Here and there a fowl (in a house that is really a prison)
begins to sang the song it sang on the farm, and toward noon its
song becomes a chant of articulate joy.
Then the poor crawl out of their reeking hovels on the South and
West sides to stand in the sun-the blessed sun-and felicitate
themselves on being alive. Windows of sickrooms are opened, the
merry small boy goes to school without his tippet, and men lay off
their long ulsters for their beaver coats. Caps give place to hats,
and men women pause to chat when they meet each other the
street. The open door is the sign of the great change of wind.
There are imaginative souls who are stirred yet deeper by this
wind-men like Robert Bloom, to whom come vague and very
sweet reminiscences of farm life when the snow is melting and the
dry ground begins to appear.
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