There was some snow outside––not very much––a wild bird or two among the naked apple trees; green edges, still, where snowy lawn and flower border met.
And there was colour in the leafless shrubbery, too––wine-red stems of dogwood, ash-blue berry-canes, and the tangled green and gold of willows. And over all a pale cobalt sky, and a snow-covered hill, where, in the woods, crows sat cawing on the taller trees, and a slow goshawk sailed.
A rich land, this, even under ice and snow––a rich, rolling land hinting of fat furrows and heavy grain; and of spicy, old-time gardens where the evenings were heavy with the scent of phlox and lilies.
Palla, her hands behind her back, seeming very childish and slim in her black gown, stood searching absently 48 among the books for something to distract her––something in harmony with the restless glow of hidden fires hot in her restless heart.
But war is too completely the great destroyer, killing even the serener pleasures of the mind, corrupting normal appetite, dulling all interest except in what pertains to war.
War is the great vandal, too, obliterating even that interest in the classic past which is born of respect for tradition. War slays all yesterdays, so that human interest lives only in the fierce and present moment, or blazes anew at thought of what may be to-morrow.
Only the chronicles of the burning hour can hold human attention where war is. For last week is already a decade ago; and last year a dead century; but to-day is vital and to-morrow is immortal.
It was so with Palla. Her listless eyes swept the ranks of handsome, old-time books––old favourites bound in gold and leather, masters of English prose and poetry gathered and garnered by her grand-parents when books were rare in Shadow Hill.
Not even the modern masters appealed to her––masters of fiction acclaimed but yesterday; virile thinkers in philosophy, in science; enfranchised poets who had stridden out upon Olympus only yesterday to defy the old god’s lightning with unshackled strophes––and sometimes unbuttoned themes.
But it was with Palla as with others; she drifted back to the morning paper, wherein lay the interest of the hour. And nothing else interested her or the world.