T H E W I N D 163 



were weird soft whistles, countless hundreds of them, so low as 

 to be barely audible, ranging in scale as the pressure fluctuated 

 slightly, the rending of air as it was torn in fragments over 

 needle-sharp spires of hard stone, over the sponge-like en- 

 crustations of weather-decayed coral; close upon these low flute 

 notes was a faint pattering that at first was indefinable. It was 

 composed of billions of mote-proportioned explosions, Lilli- 

 putian particles of sound that broke in swelling crescendos of 

 rhythm through the medley of other tones. I lay listening a long 

 time before I was able to place them; then suddenly recollection 

 came to me; I heard this once before in a golden wheat field just 

 before the August harvest; the sound was the tapping of millions 

 of grass plants in the wind, the tiny clatter of blade against blade, 

 of stem against stem, bending and straightening, nodding one 

 blade to another. Turning I verified it immediately. In the 

 moonlight were the shadowy patches of beach grass, swirling, 

 alternately lightening and darkening as they were pressed close 

 to the earth and released again. 



From higher in the air came a sweet tuneful whispering, 

 that before this night I had associated with only one scene. 

 By half closing my eyes I found myself transported thousands 

 of miles away; the tropical vegetation melted away and I was 

 lying in a forest of great green pines, the whisperings were the 

 breeze sounds filtering between the needles, the sighing that 

 with increase of wind becomes great roaring moans and then 

 subsides again to gentle singings. It was the voice of evergreens 

 talking one to the other, confiding secrets of the good rich earth, 

 of the dry carpets of smooth brown needles, of sky-topping 

 clouds and of warm rain. Then presently, and at first all but 

 unnoticeable, came another rustling, impinging slowly on the 

 ear, becoming perceptible only after it made itself known. Even 

 more vividly than the pine-whispering, this new sound brought 

 memories of the north country flooding back to mind. It was 



