It was April, but
there were still patches of snow here and there, fast melting
under a drizzling rain. It was a gray world, a bleak,
black-and-brown world, above and below. The sky was leaden; the
road and the footpath were deep in a muddy ooze flecked with
white. The tree-trunks, black, with bare branches, were lined
against the gray sky; nevertheless, spring had been on the way
for a week, and a few sunny days would bring the yearly miracle
for which all hearts were longing.
Ivory was season-wise and his quick eye had caught many a sign as
he walked through the woods from his schoolhouse. A new and
different color haunted the tree-tops, and one had only to look
closely at the elm buds to see that they were beginning to swell.
Some fat robins had been sunning about in the school-yard at
noon, and sparrows had been chirping and twittering on the
fence-rails. Yes, the winter was over, and Ivory was glad, for it
had meant no coasting and -skating and sleighing for him, but
long walks in deep snow or slush; long evenings, good for study,
but short days, and greater loneliness for his mother. He could
see her now as he neared the house, standing in the open doorway,
her hand shading her eyes, watching, always watching, for some
one who never came.
Pages:
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42