spring, too, by token of the
gaiety that was in the air. For nothing brings joy to the heart like
the coming of spring. The folk who do be blind all the rest of the
year, their eyes do open then, and a sunset takes them, and the wee
virgin flowers coming up between the stones, or the twitter of a bird
upon the bough... And young women do be preening themselves, and young
men do be singing, even they that have the voices of rooks. There is
something stirring in them that is stirring, in the ground, with the
bursting of the seeds...

And young Marco Polo threw down the quill in the counting house where
he was learning his trade. The night was coming on. He was only a
strip of a lad, and to lads the night is not rest from work, and the
quietness of sleeping, but gaming, and drinking, and courting young
women. Now, there were two women he might have gone to, and one was a
great Venetian lady, with hair the red of a queen's cloak, and a great
noble shape to her and great dignity. But with her he would only be
reciting verses or making grand, stilted compliments, the like of those
you would hear in a play. And while that seemed to fit in with winter
and candlelight, it was poor sport for spring. The other one was a
black, plump little gown-maker, a pleasant, singing little woman, very
affectionate, and very proud to have one of the great Polos loving her.
She was eager for kissing, and always asking the lad to be careful of
himself, to be putting his cloak on, or to be sure and drink something
warm when he got home that night, for the air from the canals was
chill. The great lady was too much of the mind, and the little
gown-maker was too much of the body, either of them, to be pleasing
young Marco on the first night of spring.

Now, it is a queer thing will be pleasing a young man on the first
night of spring. The wandering foot itches, and the mind and body are
keen to follow. There is that inside a young man that makes the
hunting dog rise from the hearth on a moonlit night: "Begor! it's
myself'll take a turn through the fields on the chance of a bit of
coursing. A weasel, maybe, or an otter, would be out the night. Or a
hare itself. Ay, there would be sport for you! The hare running
hell-for-leather, and me after him over brake and dell. Ay! Ay! Ay!
A good hunt's a jewel! I'll take a stretch along the road."

Or there is in him what does be troubling the birds, and they on tropic
islands. "Tweet-twee