Raising Hackles in Darkest New Hampshire

Days like this, the Commissar of Tourism should close the borders of New Hampshire: not-winter, not- spring, January thaw; plenty of snow heaped about, but none recently—it looks used. Underfoot, grey amoeboid slush that penetrates any footgear, even unto mink-oiled Bean boots; overhead, blank clouds. The ladies and gentlemen of Dartmouth slouch, troglodyte-pale; Winter Carnival ice sculptures, Romantic or Rabelaisian, have blurred into bad Henry Moores.

Ah, yes—Midwinter Slump: one remembers it well. Of course, up here in Ultima Thule, it would hit harder. The only cure is spring, or a howling blizzard followed by sunny skies; one feels as remote as the other, just now.

CS

About the Author

C. H. Simonds

Days like this, the Commissar of Tourism should close the borders of New Hampshire: not-winter, not- spring, January thaw; plenty of snow heaped about, but none recently—it looks used. Underfoot, grey amoeboid slush that penetrates any footgear, even unto mink-oiled Bean boots; overhead, blank clouds. The ladies and gentlemen of Dartmouth slouch, troglodyte-pale; Winter Carnival ice sculptures, Romantic or Rabelaisian, have blurred into bad Henry Moores.

Ah, yes—Midwinter Slump: one remembers it well. Of course, up here in Ultima Thule, it would hit harder. The only cure is spring, or a howling blizzard followed by sunny skies; one feels as remote as the other, just now.