A Northeast Storm. 163 



ficient of both entering into our daily walks to 

 satisfy us, and to make sure of comfort I want 

 to be moved to laughter, not to tears. No one 

 laughs, it is supposed, when facing a northeast 

 storm, and in November, too, when every ex- 

 pression of these melancholy days is given a 

 rising inflection, is emphasized with energy, and 

 not a puff of rain-burdened wind but whispers 

 " Fool !" as you pass onward. Why I ever de- 

 liberately go out of doors and face such stormy 

 weather is not to be explained, at least by me. 

 I go, but I do not know why. I invariably wish 

 that I had not gone, but never turn back until 

 some reasonably distant goal is reached. I do 

 not see much, for every living creature takes 

 shelter now as it never does at any other time. 

 You see but few birds, and these not willing 

 wanderers, and I believe I never overtake a 

 meadow-mouse or catch an out-door opossum or 

 squirrel. Other people sometimes do, of course. 

 All the world is more fortunate than myself, but 

 a northeast storm is my synonyme for forsaken 

 fields. The air, now, seems too full of water to 

 hold anything else, and such a wail of utter 

 hopelessness comes from the twiggy tops of the 



