Your punch is all the
better for his threats; by contrast you enjoy the more. Or brave him
outside in a flying sledge, careering with jangling bells over white
wastes of snow, while the stars, as you go, fly through the naked trees
that are glittering with ice-jewels, and your blood tingles with
excitement, and your breath is blown like a white incense to the skies.
That is the real North. How tame he will look to you, when you go back
in August and find a few hard apples, a few tough plums, and some sour
little things which are apologies for grapes! He looks sneaky enough
then, with his make-believe summer, and all his furs off. No, then is
the time for the South. All is simmering outside, and the locust saws
and shrills till he seems to heat the air. You stay in the house at
noon, and know what a virtue there is in thick walls which keep out the
fierce heats, in gaping windows and doors that will not shut because
you need the ventilation. You will not now complain of the stone and
brick floors that you cursed all winter long, and on which you now
sprinkle water to keep the air cool in your rooms. The blunders and
stupidities of winter are all over. The breezy _loggia_ is no longer a
joke. You are glad enough to sit there and drink your wine and look
over the landscape.
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