Here is the second installment of Friday Mystery Author (yes, a day late). Every Friday, I’ll post a passage from a more or less well known book and invite all comers to identify the author and title. The first installment is here and the answer is here. Leave your answers in the comments, or just say hello, and if you have a url, please leave that too. I hope you enjoy this one, a promise of hope for the cold months ahead:
When spring came, after that hard winter, one could not get enough of the nimble air. Every morning I awakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only — spring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere: in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind — rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be petted. If I had been tossed down blindfolded on that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.
Check back on Monday for the answer. Have a good weekend.