The Reluctant Dragon

           Footprintsinthesnowhavebeenunfailingprovokersofsentimenteversincesnowwasfirstawhitewonderinthisdrab-colouredworldofours.Inapoetry-bookpresentedtooneofusbyanaunt,therewasapoembyoneWordsworthinwhichtheystoodoutstrongly—withapicturealltothemselves,too—butwedidn’tthinkveryhighlyeitherofthepoemorthesentiment.Footprintsinthesand,now,werequiteanothermatter,andwegraspedCrusoe’sattitudeofmindmuchmoreeasilythanWordsworth’s.Excitementandmystery,curiosityandsuspense—theseweretheonlysentimentsthattracks,whetherinsandorinsnow,wereabletoarouseinus.

           Wehadawakenedearlythatwintermorning,puzzledatfirstbytheaddedlightthatfilledtheroom.Then,whenthetruthatlastfullydawnedonusandweknewthatsnow-ballingwasnolongerawistfuldream,butasolidcertaintywaitingforusoutside,itwasamerebrutefightforthenecessaryclothes,andthelacingofbootsseemedaclumsyinvention,andthebuttoningofcoatsanundulytediousformoffastening,withallthatsnowgoingtowasteatourverydoor.

           Whendinner-timecamewehadtobedraggedinbythescruffofournecks.Theshortarmisticeover,thecombatwasresumed;butpresentlyCharlotteandI,alittlewearyofcontestsandofmissilesthatranshudderinglydowninsideone’sclothes,forsookthetrampledbattle-fieldofthelawnandwentexploringtheblankvirginspacesofthewhiteworldthatlaybeyond.