37 



balls of fire to furrow anew the bare, level 

 ploughland. 



Quickly it comes and goes, a very scourge 

 of the air, leaving ruth and ruin along its 

 narrow path. A chill wind and watery sighs 

 after it pale and perfidious, a mourner 

 secretly rejoicing in the havoc he is set to 

 bewail. At last he blows him out ; the sun 

 shines, and green things uplift to his ray 

 their bruised heads. Long before high 

 summer they will have no memory even of 

 hurt. But the great oak, wrenched away 

 from the root, shall lie still and stark, with 

 no hope of resurrection. 



