200 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



hour it gathered to itself all that can be connected with 

 a home. It was alone, but its high cool thatch was full 

 of protection and privacy, sufficient against sun or rain 

 or wind or frost, yet impregnated with free air and light. 

 Its ash-trees communed with the heavens and the setting 

 sun. The wheat glowed at its gates. The dark masses 

 of the lower woods enhanced by a touch of primeval 

 gloom and savagery the welcoming expression of the 

 house. Slowly the light died out of the ash-tops and the 

 wheat turned to a mist. The wood seemed to creep up 

 close and lay its shadows over the house. But, stronger 

 than the wood and the oncoming tide of night that 

 enveloped it, the spirits of roof and wall and hearth were 

 weaving a spell about the house to guard it, so that it 

 looked a living, breathing, dreaming thing. Nimble, 

 elvish, half-human but wholly kind small spirits I fancied 

 them, creeping from corners in stone and thatch and 

 rafter, at war with those that dwelt in lonely and dark 

 places, that knew not fire and lamp and human voices 

 save as invaders. For a little while there was a pause, 

 a suspense, a hesitation — Could the small spirits win? — 

 Were not the woods older and more mighty? — Was not 

 that long black bar of cloud across the cold west some- 

 thing sinister, already engulfing the frail white moon ? 

 But suddenly, as if the life of the house had found a 

 powerful voice, one eye in the nearer gable was lit by 

 a small lamp and a figure could be guessed behind it. 

 The first Promethean spark of fire stolen from the gods 

 was hardly a more signal victory than that at which the 

 house and I rejoiced when the white light glimmered 

 across the corn. It seemed the birth of light. 



