"Jonathan," I gasped, "this isn't spring; it's winter of the most furious description. Let's reform the calendar and put up signs to warn the flowers. But I want my spring! I want it now!"
"Well," said Jonathan, "there it is. Look!" And he pointed across the brush of the near fence line, where a meadow stretched away, brown with the stubble and matted tangle of last year's grass. Halfway up the springy slope, in a little fold of the hillside, was a shimmer of green—vivid, wonderful.
I forgot the wind. "Oh-h! Think of being a cow now and eating that! Eating spring itself!"
"If you were a cow," said Jonathan, with the usual masculine command of applicable information, "they wouldn't let you eat it."
"They wouldn't! Why not? Does it make them sick?"
"No; crazy."
"Crazy!"
"Just that. Crazy for grass. They won't touch hay any more, and there isn't enough grass for them—and there you are!"
"Did you make that up as you went along, Jonathan?"
"Ask any farmer."