WE have had a series of long, heavy rains, and water 

 is standing over the swampy meadow. It is a dreary 

 stretch, this wet, sedgy land in the cold twilight, 

 drearier than any part of the woods or the upland 

 pastures. They are empty, but the meadow is flat 

 and wet, naked and all unsheltered. And a Novem- 

 ber night is falling. 



The darkness deepens. A raw wind is rising. At 

 nine o'clock the moon swings round and full to the 

 crest of the ridge, and pours softly over. I button the 

 heavy ulster close, and in my rubber boots go down 

 to the river and follow it out to the middle of the 

 meadow, where it meets the main ditch at the sharp 

 turn toward the swamp. Here at the bend, behind a 

 clump of black alders, I sit quietly down and wait. 



