I knew there would be frozen brown earth, last year's dead leaves, caved-in apple and potato holes, the cabbage row almost gone, puddles of water and mud everywhere, and I would hear geese scream and hens sing.

And yet that poem kept pulling and pulling, and I was happy as a queen--I wondered if they were for sure; mother had doubts--the day I was wrapped in shawls and might sit an hour in the sun on the top board of the back fence, where I could see the barn, orchard, the creek and the meadow, as you never could in summer because of the leaves.

I wasn't looking for buttercups and daisies either.

I mighty well knew there wouldn't be any.
But the sun was there.

A little taste of willow, oak and maple was in the air.