my uncle and laid him in the earth, at the edge of the garden, in a place no bigger than a span! And as though you did not see, now, that the snow in the garden has carried everything away... Her eyes clouded over — God rest her — and she moved me away from the window, and then turned me from the talk. For I had an uncle who went back to his Lord when he was a year old, and my grandmother could find no consolation for him; how often, indeed, was she stirred to grief over him, without my knowing it, while I leapt for joy in what had been his playing-places.

That little dead one occupied my thoughts through the days of childhood, and something of him, all trouble, haunted me in the tale of the span's space where he sleeps behind the garden. The face of the earth had cleared after the snow, and the sun came on like a torch! My hand was in my grandmother's hand as we strolled beneath the glistening trees. Then the tale of the span's space came back upon me, and I feared our walk would end at the edge of the garden... So I said to my grandmother:

— The snow, grandmother, the snow!!

She looked at me, not knowing what I meant, and then said:

— You ask about the snow? It has gone its way; and tomorrow the grass will come, and the world will turn green, and I will take you out far.

I answered not a word. It was as though I felt something like fear! So I held back what was pressing on my breast of the tale of the little dead one whose place, at the far ends of the trees, the snow had wiped over! But my grandmother was keen of mind beyond all describing, and she caught sight of it. It

was as though she remembered our standing at the window, and my saying to her that the snow had carried everything away... She could not master a grief that came from her eyes in great drops; then she lifted me to her breast and held me long, wishing to hide from me a soreness that I had stirred with my own hand...

And I remember that the rain, on certain January nights, would pour down upon our house with clamor and force. The wind, meanwhile, would rage and drive, and at certain openings it gave out sounds like the scrape of a knife! Then the hearth in the corner grew sweet with a thousand embers, and with a thousand talks of the bounty pouring down. And on those nights of my childhood I felt no warmth, and knew no drowsiness, until half of me was on the seat and my head was on my grandmother's breast — for childhood knows better than any where the warm places are... Then my grandmother said:

— I hear something in the garden like a crash.

And the talk around the hearth broke off, until nothing was heard but the voice of the fire. Someone said to her:

— The night is fierce and the wind is violent; one of the trees will have fallen to the ground.

She said:

— Away with this night, it is like an earthquake. If things go on so until morning, the night will carry off every tree in our garden.

Then I remembered the span's space... a year had passed since its tale. And I looked at my grandmother out of the corner of my eye — as though pointing to the secret that was between me and her! After some moments she perceived that something

stood behind my tongue which I was afraid to bring out. It was as though she knew, God rest her, that the talk of the falling tree, and the fear for the garden, had recalled me to the old tale of the snow... Or as though she knew I was on the point of saying to her that the rain is far more merciful than the snow! Her eyes fluttered a moment; then she drew me to her breast, wishing to turn me away from that sorrowful philosophy!!

And how many a heartache lies in the dust!! For my grand-mother came to her appointed term a few years after those nights, and took shelter, in the dignity of age and the majesty of the past, in a soft earth behind the trees, close by the little dead one...

•

Then upon all that, in the book that has no title, thick pages were folded shut; and there remained in my memory, of the tale of the snow, only a few let-ters that had escaped effacement and lived on by being gone over again! Until last night came, and the city surged under the hands of the rain, from the pavements of the streets to the hills of sand — contrary to the habit of winter nights in the city. And when morning came, I looked out from the window, my child at my breast, to see what the rain had done about the house; and behold, the sun was in the garden, and the new leaves, all moist, glistened under the rays, safe in God's keeping — so that I could almost hear from them the movement of growing... And I remembered the tale of the snow with the utmost clearness of remembrance. Then I turned my eyes to the little head that bur-rowed into my breast, wary of staring into the dazzling bright-ness — and behold, the snow, in truth, carries nothing away...