I-XVII

When spring came, after that hard winter,
one could not get enough of the nimble air.
Every morning I wakened with a fresh con-
sciousness that winter was over. There were
none of the signs of spring for which I used
to watch in Virginia, no budding woods or
blooming gardens. There was only -- spring
itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness,
the vital essence of it everywhere; in the sky,
in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and
in the warm, high wind -- rising suddenly,
sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like
a big puppy that pawed you and then lay
down to be petted. If I had been tossed down
blindfold on that red prairie, I should have
known that it was spring.

Everywhere now there was the smell of
burning grass. Our neighbors burned off their
pasture before the new grass made a start,
so that the fresh growth would not be mixed
with the dead stand of last year. Those light,
swift fires, running about the country, seemed
a part of the same kindling that was in the air.

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