It is a time for macintoshes and sound
rubbers; a golden age for patent cough mixtures and freckles, the
sworn destroyer of artificial curls and long clothes. It is true that
a glad, golden sunshine floods the earth at times, but what of that,
when sullied, muddy streams are rushing and bubbling on with a roaring
speed, plunging into hollow drains at every street-corner; when sulky
foot-passengers pick their uncomfortable way through all the debris of
what had been the beauty of the dead season. Fashionable young men,
with the extremities of their expensive tweeds turned carefully up,
choose their steps over the treacherous crossways, leaning upon their
silk umbrellas with an unfeigned expression of utter disapproval, and
ladies in trim ulsters and very short skirts pilot themselves along
the unclean thoroughfares, with very emphatic airs of impatience and
disgust. This is certainly not the season, in those Canadian cities
whose winters are so severe, when "the young man's fancy lightly turns
to thoughts of love." If there is a time in the year when this worthy
sentiment is ignored, and I may say deliberately ostracised, by
Canadian youth, it is in the spring. But like all earthly
circumstances, this, too, dies a natural death, and is succeeded by a
truly enjoyable and suggestive period, that of early summer. It has
been my experience to meet with many people who become the victims of
a depressing melancholy in the spring.
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