What comes o' thee? 



Whar wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

 An' close thy e'e? 



The storm grew fiercer ; the wind roared 

 through the big pines by the side of the house 

 and swept hoarsely on across the fields; the 

 pines shivered and groaned, and their long 

 limbs scraped over the shingles above me as if 

 feeling with frozen fingers for a way in j the 

 windows rattled, the cracks and corners of the 

 old farm-house shrieked, and a long, thin line of 

 snow sifted in from beneath the window across 

 the garret floor. I fancied these sounds of the 

 storm were the voices of freezing birds, crying 

 to be taken in from the cold. Once I thought 

 I heard a thud against the window, a sound 

 heavier than the rattle of the snow. Something 

 seemed to be beating at the glass. It might be 

 a bird. I got out of bed to look ; but there 

 was only the ghostly face of the snow pressed 

 against the panes, half-way to the window's top. 

 I imagined that I heard the thud again ; but, 

 while listening, fell asleep and dreamed that 

 my window was frozen fast, and that all the 

 birds in the world were knocking at it, trying 

 to get in out of the night and storm. 



