Redroff 



feeble flutter of a dying wing, cut short thfc 

 pain, the deed was wholly kind. 



The wind blew down the valley from the 

 north. The snow-horses went racing over the 

 wrinkled ice, over the Don Flats, and over the 

 marsh toward the lake, white, for they were 

 driven snow, but on them, scattered dark, were 

 riding plumy fragments of partridge ruffs — the 

 famous rainbow ruffs. And they rode on the 

 winter wind that night, away and away to the 

 south, over the dark and boisterous lake, as they 

 rode in the gloom of his Mad Moon flight, 

 riding and riding on till they were engulfed, 

 the last trace of the last of the Don Valley race. 



For now no partridge comes to Castle Frank. 

 Its woodbirds miss the martial spring salute, 

 and in Mud Creek Ravine the old pine drum- 

 log, since unused, has rotted in silence away. 







