The chinook wind droned its spring song, and the bare boughs of
the tree beside the cabin waved and creaked the time. Somewhere
distantly a wolf lifted up his voice, and the long, throaty howl
swelled in a lull of the wind. It was black and ghostly outside, and
strange, murmuring sounds rose and fell in the surrounding forests, as
though all the dormant life of the North was awakening at the seasonal
change. She closed the window and went back to bed.
At dawn the eaves had ceased their drip, and the dirt roof laid bare to
the cloud-banked sky. From the southwest the wind still blew strong
and warm. The thick winter garment of the earth softened to slush, and
vanished with amazing swiftness. Streams of water poured down every
depression. Pools stood between the house and stable. Spring had
leaped strong-armed upon old Winter and vanquished him at the first
onslaught.
All that day the chinook blew, working its magic upon the land. When
day broke again with a clearing sky, and the sun peered between the
cloud rifts, his beams fell upon vast areas of brown and green, where
but forty-eight hours gone there was the cold revelry of frost sprites
upon far-flung fields of snow.
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