houses up in the far woods, with smoke and
white steam coming out from all their cracks, as though there was
somebody inside magicking charms and making a great cloud to cover it,
like Klingsor or the witch-ladies in the Arabian Nights. There was a
piece of music Mother played, that was like that. You could almost see
the white clouds begin to come streeling out between the piano-keys, and
drift all around her. All but her face that always looked through.

The sun shone down so warm on her head, she thought she might take off
her woolen cap. Why, yes, it was plenty warm enough. Oh, how good it
felt! How _good_ it did feel! Like somebody actually touching your hair
with a warm, soft hand. And the air, that cool, cool air, all damp with
the thousand little brooks, it felt just as good to be cool, when you
tossed your hair and the wind could get into it. How _good_ it did feel
to be bare-headed, after all that long winter! Cool inside your hair at
the roots, and warm outside where the sun pressed on it. Cool wind and
warm sun, two different things that added up to make one lovely feel for
a little girl. The way your hair tugged at its roots, all streaming
away; every single little hair tied tight to your head at one end, and
yet so wildly loose at the other; tight, strong, firm, and yet light and
limber and flag-flapping . . . it was like being warm and cool at the same
time, so different and yet the same.

And there, underneath all this fluttering and tossing and differences,
there were your legs going on just as dumb and steady as ever, stodge,
stodge, stodge! She looked down at them with interest and appreciation
of their faithful, dutiful service, and with affection at the rubber
boots. She owed those to Mother. Paul had scared her so, when he said,
so stone-wally, the way Paul always spoke as if that settled everything,
that _none_ of the little girls at school wore rubber boots, and he
thought Elly oughtn't to be allowed to look so queer. It made him almost
ashamed of his sister, he said. But Mother had somehow . . . what _had_
she said to fix it? . . . oh well, something or other that left her her
rubber boots and yet Paul wasn't mad any more.

And what could she _do_ without rubber boots, when she wanted to wade
through a brook, like this one, and the brooks were as they were now,
all running spang full to the very edge with snow-water, the way this
one did? Oo . . . Ooh . . . Ooh! how queer it did feel, to be sta