Dedication
In Memory of
Epigraph
The North Wind is my prancing steed,
The Bridle is my kite;
I’ll harness him, I’ll drive him,
’Till my kite’s most out of sight.
M.
I saw you toss the kites on high,
And blow the birds about the sky,
And all about I heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass.
Stevenson.