WINTER'S EVE 197 



leaves have fallen long ago, they lie black 

 and rotting on the ground. Those that 

 drifted down when summer died have 

 already merged into the earth whence will 

 come the bluebells in April. But a short 

 time since they were scurrying over the 

 grass and among the bramble bushes, all 

 crisp and brown. The wind caught them 

 up and whirled them in their thousands: 

 then came the time of wintry rains and 

 mists. Their brittleness went, they sank 

 into the earth. 



The owl is silent. He has fanned his 

 way from branch to branch, peering to 

 the ground. The slightest movement is 

 watched by his large eyes. A little dark 

 thing running quickly over the leaves, a 

 silent glide to the ground, wings fanning 

 the air, the clutch of a powerful foot, a 

 faint shriek as talons sink into the warm 

 body, and then to the trees again. The 

 mouse is swallowed whole. The faintest 

 of squeaks from behind, the owl's head 



