March Winds.

The first touch of winter,” shivered Mary. “It will be warm again, but today …” She crouched closer to the heater. “I always resent the winter.”

“You? Why, I thought you revelled in it.”

“I do, but not in the prospect of it. You're not knitting already!” (Mary, the keen winter knitter, drops it entirely in summer, as she does her golf.)

“I am,” I confessed. “On holiday I almost finished a bed-jacket. This is a cardigan. You know what a frog I am in winter.”

“You make me feel colder,” complained Mary. “I meant to knit undie sets for myself. I suppose, if I don't start soon, I won't have them finished till nearly Christmas. Come on out and we'll buy the wool”—which we did. As well, Mary bought a smart black frock in light-weight wool. “Just right for now,” she explained. “Not too hot and not too cold.”

I like Mary in black. She has a smartness. And somehow her accessories are right—by chance one thinks, but anyone who has shopped with her knows the time and patience she expends in getting what she wants.

While I wandered from shop to shop with Mary, I thought intermittently about winter, I always dread its approach, and yet some of my best times have been winter times. Of the best, and unfortunately the rarest, are winter sport moments—the pause with heart pounding after a pull up the final slope; the quick recovery with the lungs drawing in draughts of pure, keen air; the pleasure the eye takes in snowy summits and far vistas below; the pleasure the ear takes in mountain silence or the roar of an avalanche on a clear day. But that is not winter—it is a state of glorified being, earned by such physical exertion as few of us ordinarily force ourselves to.

“Which shade do you prefer?” said Mary.

“White,” I replied instantly.

“White! For heaven's sake, wake up!”

I did. We were at the stocking counter. Resolutely I brought myself back to now.

“Evening stockings,” explained Mary patiently. “To wear with my velvet and the lame overblouse I'm having made. You saw the patterns.”

I perked up a little. After all, there were beautiful things other than mountains, and even the lame had the glint of ice in it.

Women's most beautiful clothes belong to winter. Even those who “don't dance these days,” find fascination in the colour and movement of a ballroom. Yes, and the physical pleasure of perfect movement in the dance has something akin to that of skiing or skating.

“Just some handkerchiefs now,” said Mary. “I was sadly neglected at Christmas. Everyone seemed to think I wanted soap and powder-puffs.”

From then, until we parted, Mary talked golf, an enthusiasm I could share in part. Golf in New Zealand is a game most of us associate with winter. To me, one of the joys of it, dare I confess, is the souse in a hot bath at the end of the day, and the relaxation, with a book or the chat of friends, before a fire, as the pleasant evening hours drift by.

So, come Winter! You bring joys enough.