47 



mad Wind loves the dance. See him blow- 

 ing in gusty joy scattering coal and brand, 

 trying with all his might to send his scarlet 

 sweetheart across the saving girdle of fur- 

 rows. Once she was in the wood, where 

 the heaped leaves lie so dry under dead 

 brush, over rotting timber, the revel might 

 go on and on end who knows where ? 



The field-hands know his tricks. They 

 stand sharply at guard, stamping out, beat- 

 ing back, each thready flame that seeks to 

 cross the barrier. Deep into the dusk they 

 wait, scattering coals from the brush-heaps, 

 making certain that no spark has lodged 

 in the fence itself or in the wood beyond. 

 Stars come out whitely overhead ; dew-fall 

 begins ; the smoke of the burning drifts 

 away to the lowlands. All about you 

 breathes the keen, aromatic scent of half- 

 burned sassafras sticks. One stout fellow 

 stoops to pull up a fragrant loosened root, 

 but stops as a wild cry comes ringing from 

 the swamp. You listen with all your ears. 

 At last a slow voice says, " Spring must be 

 come in earnest. Hear the whippoorwill." 



