SOUTH RAIN 



A HE night was dark and bitter cold, 

 though it was early March. Over in the 

 dismal depths of Pigeon Swamp, where 

 no pigeons have nested for nearly a half 

 century though it is as wild and lone to- 

 day as it was when they flocked there by 

 thousands, a deep-toned, lonely cry re- 

 sounded. It was like the fitful baying of 

 a dog in the distance, only that it was too 

 wild and eerie for that. Then there was 

 silence for a space and an eldritch screech 

 rang out. 



It was blood-curdling to a human lis- 

 tener, but it was reassuring to the great 

 horned owl snuggling down on her two 

 great blotched eggs to keep them secure 

 3 



