62 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



At least the ancients called February the year's 

 end, maintaining, with fine poetic sense, that the 

 world was begun in March ; and they were nearer 

 the beginnings of things than we are. 



But the owls come in February, and if they 

 are not swallows with the spring, they, never- 

 theless, help winter with most seemly haste into 

 an early grave. Yet across the faded February 

 meadow the old apple tree stands empty and 

 drear enough until the shadows of the night 

 begin to fall. 



As the dusk comes down, I go to my window 

 and watch. I cannot see him, the grim-beaked 

 baron with his hooked talons, his ghostly wings, 

 his night-seeing eyes; but I know that he has 

 come to his window in the turret yonder on the 

 darkening sky, and that he watches with me. I 

 cannot see him swoop downward over the ditches, 

 nor see him quarter the meadow, beating, dan- 

 gling, dropping between the flattened tussocks; 

 nor hear him, back on the silent shadows, slant 

 upward again to his turret. Mine are human 

 eyes, human ears. Even the quick-eared meadow- 

 mouse did not hear. 



But I have been belated and forced to cross 



