IX 
TWO BIRDS THAT CAME BACK 
(BrrDLAND, September 27th.) 
THE rain had poured steadily all Thursday and Friday, 
until Friday evening, and the wind blew so hard that 
many a little window-pane in the older farm-houses fell 
in with a crash and the owner, jumping up quickly to 
snatch the lamp out of the draught, would exclaim, 
“T do declare, we haven’t hed sech a genuine old-fashioned 
line-storm for years !”’ 
The “line” being the short for equinox, the imaginary 
line crossing the sun’s path over which, on March 21st, 
old Sol is supposed to step from winter into spring. 
Again, on September 21st, he steps from summer into 
autumn, takes off his summer hat, with its crown of burning 
rays, and tells his wife to ask North Star for the key to 
the iceberg, where his winter flannels are kept in cold 
storage, so that they may be ready for any emergency. 
The fact that these storms seldom come upon the days 
when they are due, simply proves that the solar system 
prefers to measure time to suit itself. 
A little before dawn, on Saturday morning, the rain 
stopped ; the heavy clouds in the east broke up into bars 
of blue steel, through which the sun peered cautiously, 
as if uncertain whether or not to break them away. Then, 
102 
