After a mild winter the new lambs come in a March as wet, cold, and unforgiving as any I remember. Night freezes continue into April. But the brave birds risk a note of hope, and the bold little wood anemones lift their pretty blooms into the cold above the dead leaves. The sun grows slowly stronger. This Sabbath morning, I climb again to the high woods and sit down. Toward noon the wind loses its edge. Comfort comes. I eat, and then sleep
