Please, wherever you are…wherever you’re reading this from…hill, dale, valley, hummock, or plain. Mountain or Shield, midland or coast…please…
Send Aslan.
Our country has been locked in the frigid grip of the White Queen for …well, it seems like ages now. My own children were much younger the last time they could play outside barefoot with the warm sun on their shining faces. I can’t remember the last time I saw green in the out-of-doors. Even the conifers are looking weary.
In fact, on the way home the other day, I chanced to glance upward, where I’d heard a certain commotion in the branches above. There sat a nervous squirrel, having just leapt from the topmost branches in a tree to the top of our roof. It paused and glanced at me in an accusing manner, as if I personally had ensured the ice would jam up in the eaves and flow up over the edge of the roof so he couldn’t get at the tender seeds that had fallen in to the eaves last fall. Then he pitched his wee eyebrows and fixed me with a pleading look. “Why?” His little brown eyes beseeched me. “Why have the two-foots not called forth the sun? Why must you torture me so? And, have you any nutmeats about your person?”
I shook my head sadly. “I’m sorry, Scuirus Niger; the truth is, had I my own druthers, the sun would have melted this ice and snow weeks ago. And no, I have no nutmeats on my person. I shall put some out for you, though.”
“Oh,” the squirrel seemed to meekly say, “Oh. I see. Well. If you wouldn’t mind so much turning up the heat a wee bit in your home. It warms my tiny paws. I…I have to run…” And off it bounded, sad and teary-eyed, for its winter dray.
Today it’s snowing like it’s the third of December, and while I know you’re Very Tired of hearing about the weather, and while it’s Very Beautiful and we need the moisture, um. I sure miss summer….
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