For nine of his first fourteen years, Cyril Harris's family lived in Nova Scotia, when and were the winters were severe, the available entertainment was all homemade, and the sunsets were ""so unbelievably gorgeous they made you leave your supper to go out and look"". It is somehow surprising that a college professor emeritus, writing now from the vantage of more than seventy years of life and more than fifty of American sophistication, should be able to recall and re-evoke the quality of his introspection of those days. A clergyman's son, he balanced himself tremulously between conviction and skepticism, nowing with certainty only that a liberal education was the one thing he specifically demanded of life and wished to earn. Judging from chance paragraphs here and there, his adolescence and young manhood could not have been a happy or an easy time, nor were the Nova Scotia years free of restlessness and searching. But this drama of mind unfolding is the counterpoint behind a surging melody of poetry, as a tot becomes a teenager wise beyond his years. Memories are fragile: his are not crushed or crumpled, but lie carefully transfixed on the pages of his story.