And sometimes the January wind is so intimate that you know it came only from the next hill， a little wind that plays with leaves and puffs at chimney smoke and whistles like a little boy with puckered lips. It makes the little cedar trees quiver， as with delight. It shadowboxes with the weather-vane. It tweaks an ear， and whispers laughing words about crocuses and daffodils， and nips the nose and dances off.
But you never know， until you hear its voice， which wind is here today. Or， more important， which will be here tomorrow.