It was on a blue March morning, with all the trees of my aunt's woods
in a pale-green tumult of wind, that, quite unwittingly, I set out on
a journey that has not yet come to an end.
There was a hint in the air at my waking, I fancied, not quite of mere
earth, the perfume of the banners of Flora, of the mould where in
melting snow the crocus blows. I looked from my window, and the
western clouds drew gravely and loftily in the illimitable air towards
the whistling house. Strange trumpets pealed in the wind. Even my
poor, aged Aunt Sophia had changed with the universal change; her
great, solitary face reminded me of some long-forgotten April.
And a little before eleven I saddled my uncle's old mare Rosinante
(poor female jade to bear a name so glorious!), and rode out (as for
how many fruitless seasons I had ridden out!), down the stony,
nettle-narrowed path that led for a secret mile or more, beneath
lindens, towards the hills.
II
_Still thou art blest compared wi' me!_
--ROBERT BURNS.
It is to be wondered at that in so bleak a wind I could possibly fall
into reverie.
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