of a bird upon the bough. . .And young women do be preening themselves,
and young men do be singing, even they that have the voices of rooks.
There is something stirring in them that is stirring, in the ground,
with the bursting of the seeds. . .

And young Marco Polo threw down the quill in the counting house where
he was learning his trade. The night was coming on. He was only a
strip of a lad, and to lads the night is not rest from work, and the
quietness of sleeping, but gaming, and drinking, and courting young
women. Now, there were two women he might have gone to, and one was
a great Venetian lady, with hair the red of a queen's cloak, and a
great noble shape to her and great dignity. But with her he would
only be reciting verses or making grand, stilted compliments, the
like of those you would hear in a play. And while that seemed to
fit in with winter and candlelight, it was poor sport for spring.
The other one was a black, plump little gown-maker, a pleasant,
singing little woman, very affectionate, and very proud to have
one of the great Polos loving her. She was eager for kissing, and
always asking the lad to be careful of himself, to be putting his
cloak on, or to be sure and drink something warm when he got home
that night, for the air from the canals was chill. The great lady
was too much of the mind, and the little gown-maker was too much
of the body, either of them, to be pleasing young Marco on the first
night of spring.

Now, it is a queer thing will be pleasing a young man on the first
night of spring. The wandering foot itches, and the mind and body
are keen to follow. There is that inside a young man that makes the
hunting dog rise from the hearth on a moonlit night: "Begor! it's
myself'll take a turn through the fields on the chance of a bit of