After the Storm. 59 



from their bones in the Indian kitchen-refuse 

 heaps and old cooking sites. Hawks add wild- 

 ness to the wintry sky, and a black falcon on 

 the bare branch of some outstanding tree is of 

 course the shining mark towards which perse- 

 cuting crows impetuously dart. 



I need not row. The wind carries the boat 

 in that aimless way that is so desirable when 

 bound for no harbor. There are no breakers 

 ahead. I am due nowhere, answerable to no 

 one. Free as the wind is free ; aimless ; in love, 

 for the moment, with every new bird that 

 comes ; devoted follower of the wandering 

 musk-rat ; ardent admirer of the drowned-out 

 mice ; everything and all things unto each and 

 every creature ; torn from my moorings, like 

 my neighbor's fence-rails ; free and happy. 

 The storm, while it lasted, produced no pain, 

 but still there was a feeling of restraint. I 

 could have stood out in it and there was no 

 one to stay me, yet I was restrained. The 

 gloomy night suggested nothing to make me 

 love life or the world ; but the day, the sunlit 

 hours after the storm, mean everything, and to 

 float on these joyous waters that meet the pass- 



