In One Place A Snow Slide Had Caught Just The Edge Of A Shed
And Scooped It Away As A Knife Scoops Cheese.
High up the hills men had
built diverting barriers to turn the drifts, but the drifts had swept
over everything, and lay five deep on the top of the sheds.
When we woke
it was on the banks of the muddy Fraser River and the spring was
hurrying to meet us. The snow had gone; the pink blossoms of the wild
currant were open, the budding alders stood misty green against the blue
black of the pines, the brambles on the burnt stumps were in tenderest
leaf, and every moss on every stone was this year's work, fresh from the
hand of the Maker. The land opened into clearings of soft black earth.
At one station a hen had laid an egg and was telling the world about it.
The world answered with a breath of real spring - spring that flooded the
stuffy car and drove us out on the platform to snuff and sing and
rejoice and pluck squashy green marsh-flags and throw them at the
colts, and shout at the wild duck that rose from a jewel-green lakelet.
God be thanked that in travel one can follow the year! This, my spring,
I lost last November in New Zealand. Now I shall hold her fast through
Japan and the summer into New Zealand again.
Here are the waters of the Pacific, and Vancouver (completely destitute
of any decent defences) grown out of all knowledge in the last three
years.
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