AN UNPROGRESSIVE FARM 21 



At first I took the muffled shudder of wings 

 for distant thunder, and when great masses 

 of soot came tumbling down into the fireplace, 

 I jumped; but I soon grew accustomed to all 

 this. I was even willing to clean the soot out 

 of my neat fireplace daily, while Jonathan 

 comforted me by suggesting that the birds 

 took the place of chimney-sweeps, and that 

 soot was good for rose bushes. Yes, if the 

 little things had been willing to stick to their 

 chimney, I should have been tolerant, if not 

 cordial. But when they invaded my domain, 

 I felt that I had a grievance. And invade it 

 they did. At dawn I was rudely awakened by 

 a rush from the fireplace, a mad scuttering 

 about the dusky room, a desperate exit by the 

 little open window, where the raised shade 

 revealed the pale light of morning. At night, 

 if I went with my candle into a dark room, I 

 was met by a whirling thing, dashing itself 

 against me, against the light, against the 

 walls, in a moth-like ecstasy of self-destruc 

 tion. In the mornings, as I went about the 

 house pulling up the shades and drawing back 

 the curtains, out from their white folds rushed 

 dark, winged shapes, whirring past my ears, 



