A Wintry Dawn. 7 



the hour. It is a mellow note, a calm and peaceful 

 sound; and yet the daws, that but now were lining 

 the long parapet, suddenly start up and circle round 

 the stately keep, scared from their rest by the familiar 

 clang. Does something in its tone recall that other 

 note of fear that from the self-same throat sounds on 

 wild nights to call the lifeboat crew to peril their lives 

 upon the sea ? 



It is the hour of day. Sounds of labour have long 

 been rising from the peaceful hamlet, and 



' From the hundred chimneys of the village, 

 Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 



Smoky columns 

 Tower aloft into the air of amber.' 



