II-VII

Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs
on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen.
On the farm the weather was the great fact,
and men's affairs went on underneath it, as the
streams creep under the ice. But in Black
Hawk the scene of human life was spread out
shrunken and pinched, frozen down to the bare
stalk.

Through January and February I went to
the river with the Harlings on clear nights, and
we skated up to the big island and made bon-
fires on the frozen sand. But by March the
ice was rough and choppy, and the snow on the
river bluffs was gray and mournful-looking.
I was tired of school, tired of winter clothes,
of the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and the
piles of cinders that had lain in the yards so
long. There was only one break in the dreary
monotony of that month; when Blind d'Ar-
nault, the negro pianist, came to town. He
gave a concert at the Opera House on Monday
night, and he and his manager spent Saturday
and Sunday at our comfortable hotel. Mrs.

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v?