THE WINGS OF THE WIND. 



ALL day long the voice of the gale has filled the 

 air with its hoarse call. Last night the sultry 

 clouds of the thunder-storm hung low in the 

 stifling air, and it seemed as if the earth were too 

 exhausted ever to do more than gasp for its poor 

 breath. But when the dawn began to glimmer in 

 the east there came a puff from the northern hills, the 

 leaves began to rustle in a lively dance, the gust be- 

 came a steady breeze, the breeze grew to a gale, and 

 the gale sometimes got excited and lashed itself into 

 squalls which set all the trees of the wood to tossing 

 and writhing in wild struggles to hold their own 

 against this reckless, riotous, roystering blast. The 

 oatfield at the side of the house has been one welter- 

 ing sea of green all day. The corn in the field 

 beyond has been a tatter of green streamers fluttering 

 down to leeward. Every wooded hillside has been 

 a billowing mass of shifting greens. And all the 

 while that mighty voice has roared in our ears until 

 they are fairly tired with the strain of enforced 

 listening. 



So all these bright hours, bracing the body with 

 the tonic airs of the north, have filled the mind with 



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