of $ 



wavering black figures, weary, retreating figures, 

 beating over in the early dusk. 



To-night another wild storm sweeps across the 

 January fields. All the afternoon the crows have 

 been going over, and at five o'clock are still passing 

 though the darkness settles rapidly. Now it is eight, 

 and the long night is but just begun. The storm 

 is increasing. The wind shrieks about the house, 

 whirling the fine snow in hissing eddies past the 

 corners and driving it on into long, curling crests 

 across the fields. I can hear the roar as the wind 

 strikes the shoal of pines where the fields roll into 

 the woods, a vast surf sound, but softer and higher, 

 with a wail like the wail of some vast heart in pain. 



I can see the tall trees rock and sway with their 

 burden of dark forms. As close together as they can 

 crowd on the bending limbs cling the crows, their 

 breasts turned all to the storm. With crops empty 

 and bodies weak, they rise and fall in the cutting, 

 ice-filled wind for thirteen hours of night ! 



Is it a wonder that the life fires burn low ? that 

 the small flames flicker and go out ? 



