THE VOICES OF THE SEASONS 261 



almost to a yell, and mingled with hollow groans, 

 now suddenly ceasing for an instant, now as sud- 

 denly bursting forth, then falling and dying away 

 in such a wail as it began, far off in the direction 

 opposite to that from whence it arose. It is as if 

 tormented spirits were fleeing through the air, 

 fleeter than the wind, as invisible, with voices as 

 pervasive. 



The sharp, clear, resonant crack of trees under 

 stress of severest cold, like the breaking of an 

 over-strained cord, and the duller snapping of 

 house timbers, tell of still starlit nights, when the 

 whiskers of the wandering fox are silvered with 

 his breath. In such nights the great horned owl 

 hoots a prophecy of storm. Its fulfillment is 

 heard in a gusty south wind driving a pelting slant 

 of rain against weatherboards and windows and 

 upon the snow till the rush of free brooks falls 

 upon the ear once more. 



The outlawed crow proclaims his return to such 

 scant forage as the bare fields may yield. The 

 great owl's least cousin sharpens his invisible saw 

 in the softer-breathing evenings. Some morning 

 the first robin pipes his greeting, then from high 

 overhead floats down the heavenly carol of the 

 bluebird, the song sparrow sings blithely again 

 and phoebe calls, and we know, though we only 

 hear of it from them, that spring is here once more. 



THE END 



