Pot and Pan.

We are getting through the winter nicely, thank you; and soon spring will be with us prinking and preening in its new green overcoat. What joy to contemplate the annual rebirth of the earth, the ubiquitous upreaching of verdant fingers fumbling the wayward sunbeams—or words to that effect. How good to see life yawning and stretching beneath its lush coverlet, the hills swelling, the streams yelling “it ain't gonna rain no mo',” and birds, beasts and little lepidoptera leaping to Pan's ragtime. Oh, tantivvy and hey-nonny! Also, attaboy!

But how completely the seasons prove the platitude that one man's fortune is another's bad break! For, while we of the south go to Pan those of the north go to pot. In Sascatchewan and Michigan, in Hampshire and Hamburg the frosts of winter tingle the toes and tint the nose of the nomadic northerner.