FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 



ing the mind, through work and conversation, to pensive 

 notes. At even the edge of the cloud lifted over the 

 forest hill westwards, and a yellow glow, the great beacon 

 fire of the sun, burned out, a conflagration at the verge 

 of the world. In the night, awaking gently as one who 

 is whispered to — listen ! Ah ! all the orchestra is at 

 work — the keyhole, the chink, and the chimney ; whoo- 

 hooing in the keyhole, whistling shrill whew-w-w ! in 

 the chink, moaning long and deep in the chimney. 

 Over in the field the row of pines was sighing ; the wind 

 lingered and clung to the close foliage, and each needle 

 of the million million leaflets drew its tongue across the 

 organ blast. A countless multitude of sighs made one 

 continued distant undertone to the wild roar of the gable 

 close at hand. Something seemed to be running with in- 

 numerable centipede feet over the mouth of the chimney, 

 for the long deep moan, as I listened, resolved itself into 

 a quick succession of touches, just as you might play 

 with your finger-tips, fifty times a second tattooing on 

 the hollow table. In the midst of the clangour the hear- 

 ing settled down to the sighing of the pines, which drew 

 the mind towards it, and soothed the senses to sleep. 



Towards dawn, awake again — another change : the 

 battering-ram at work now against the walls. Swinging 

 back, the solid thickness of the wind came forward — 

 crush ! as the iron-shod ram's head hanging from its chains 

 rushed to the tower. Crush ! It sucked back again as 

 if there had been a vacuum — a moment's silence, and 

 crush ! Blow after blow — the floor heaved ; the walls were 

 ready to come together — alternate sucking back and 

 heavy billowy advance. Crush ! crush ! Blow after blow, 

 heave and batter and hoist, as if it would tear the house 

 up by the roots. Forty miles that battering-ram wind 

 had travelled without so much as a bough to check it 



