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 



