; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Excerpt: ...the night-world, quiet of foot as passing clouds,--so grown, so menaced, so madrigaled, but grown stern, erect, vastthewed, beautiful, and eager for the anguish of holding up the sky. A DECEMBER SPRING This Kansas weather trips up even the elect. Its whimsies are delicious. You never know what a day will bring forth; and sufficient unto the day is;ie climate thereof. Some, even many, Derate this facility in adjusting the therjeter, talking in loud tones about rible chungeableness." Now, this ion could be brought against equal force, though, in a spirit of chivalry, I would certainly hope no man would be guilty of the impropriety of referring to woman's facile mood as "horribly changeable." That would be gross. Let us not believe it of any man. Woman's many-moodedness is among her charms,--one without which she would be appreciably poorer in that generous wealth of fascination of which she is mistress. We men love variableness in her; and why should we laud in women what we berate in weather? This is illogicality, the thing men accuse this Kansas weather of. Let us be consistent, seeing it is so easy. The surprises of the weather enamor me. And when Winter has set his foot on our road sturdily walking like some unimaginative pedestrian and when he shakes snowflakes from his mantle and puffs icy winds into the face of human kind and makes the birds seek the sheltering woodlands, then to have him, for all his bluster, pushed off the path and Spring come smiling along as hunting for violets--honestly, this tickles my funny-bone. I am, to tell the truth plainly, elated. Winter jostled out of his own highway by a bit of a lass like violet-hunting Spring! Aye, as says our Scotch friend, that is bonnie.
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