Chapter Seven.
“Spring is Coming:—The Storm.—The Fairy Forest: A Tale.”
“The brown buds thicken on the trees,
Unbound the free streams sing,
As March leads forth across the leas
The wild and windy Spring.
“When in the fields the melted snow
Leaves hollows warm and wet,
Ere many days will sweetly blow
The first blue violet.”
“I have all my life possessed such a love for nomadic adventure, that I often wondered if I have any real gipsy blood in me.”
This was a remark I made an evening or two after Frank had told us all about his friends the Arctic bears. I was looking at the fire as I spoke, as one does who is in deep thought.
“What do you see in the fire?” asked Frank.
“I see,” I replied, without removing my eyes from the crackling logs and melting sea-coal, “I see a beautifully fitted caravan, drawn by two nice horses, jogging merrily along a lovely road, among green trees, rose-clad hedgerows and trailing wild flowers. It is a beautiful evening, the clouds in the west are all aglow with the sunset-rays. I see figures on the broad coupé—female figures, one, two, three; and I can almost hear the jingle of the silver bells on the horses’ harness.”
“Who are the ladies—can you distinguish them?” asked Frank.
“Not quite.”
“O! I know, it’s me and ma and Maggie May.” This from little Ida.