Читать книгу Arctic Daughter - Jean Aspen - Страница 6

I love the summers in this land. But I also love the feel of winter winds against my cheek, when the snow squeals underfoot, and the ptarmigan, the white grouse, come whirling down from the Arrigetch Peaks once more—or any peaks in Alaska!—to talk along the valley by my house. I love the colors of the bleak wastelands where nobody goes. When the circling sun falls low, and the leaves hang and rattle in the wind, and cranberries turn to mahogany brown, and frosted blueberries taste of wine, then my cabin on the river will be snug and tight against the arctic gale. When wild grass has turned to hay and the wild geese wing their way once more over mountain and valley to the southern land below, the canoe is put away and the snowshoe will appear. But when the Arctic turns to green again and the geese return with the sun, I shall take my canoe from the tall cache, and I shall travel on the river to see some new place.

We Live in the Arctic Constance Helmericks, 1947