But of all the seasons of the year, spring is most oppressive to the spirit of childhood. The dear, artificial things that had made the winter lovely were gone, and the pastoral delights of the summer were still to come, yet Nature called us forth to a muddy, unfinished world. Then was the season of the official walk, a dreary traffic on nice, clean pavements, that placed everything in the world worth walking to out of bounds. A cold wind without the compensating advantage of snow would swing round the corners of streets, and we would feel as if we were wearing the ears and noses of other people. When we were not quarrelling we were sulking, and each was equally fatal, for the Olympians only needed a pretext to make our days bitter with iron and quinine. And our quarrels, that at kinder seasons of the year were the regretted accidents of moments, lingered now from day to day, and became the source of fierce and lonely pride. If one of us, released for a minute from the wearing of the world’s woes, made timid efforts to arrange a concerted game, he would become the object of general suspicion, and his sociability would be regarded as a hypocritical effort to win the favour of the grown-up folk. The correct attitude was one of surly aloofness that spluttered once or twice a day into tearful rebellion against the interference of the authorities. It is insulting to give a man medicine when he tells you that he wishes he were dead. Of course, underlying these disorders was just that dim spirit of disquiet that has made this season of the year notable for the production of lyric poetry. We had no means of expressing the thing that troubled our blood. Indeed, we ourselves did not know what was the matter, though this ignorance did not make our discomfort less. Time, who in the glare of a Christmas party or on the shore of a summer sea could run faster than we, seemed to take a spiteful pleasure in lingering in this unattractive place. And although our attitude towards life appeared to have been determined for us by Fate, when the long day ended and we thought over things in bed, we had not even the satisfaction of being proud of our day’s work. We would vow silently to our pillows that things should go better to-morrow, but alas! there might be many morrows before summer brought peace to our blood.