In Defence of Desolation. 187 



The world is not wrong with it. If the waters 

 are a bit troubled by the wind, a little more 

 care is needed perhaps ; but what of that ? Its 

 feathers are comparatively storm-proof, and 

 there is always quiet underneath the waves. 

 The commotion made life merrier for the coot, 

 as a bit of excitement adds a healthy pulse-beat 

 to our sluggish selves. 



But I must hurry away : the darkness means 

 a great deal if it overtakes you on the marsh. 

 I give another searching glance at the wind- 

 tossed water as I turn from it. There, for the 

 first, I see a little brown dab-chick, a distant 

 cousin of the coot's, and just as happy as that 

 strange bird. It dived as I saw it, but immedi- 

 ately reappeared, and I waved it a good-by. 



I might have accepted my friend's dictum, 

 moped in front of the andirons, and believed 

 the world desolate. How unfair would I then 

 have proved to myself and to the commonplace 

 corner in which my lot is cast ! A cloudy sky, 

 a cold east wind, a chill that reaches to the 

 bone, and patches of moisture-laden fog may 

 all be present ; the leafless trees may look all 

 forlorn and not a sound reach you as you look 



