CHAPTER III 



WHITE-FOOT 



THE December rain was falling down, down, 

 down, as if the drops were lead instead of 

 water. The December sky, if you could call 

 it sky, had settled down, down, down, as if it too 

 were of lead, and were being propped up only by 

 the tops of the stiff bare trees. 



A green stick in the fireplace behind me sizzled 

 and sputtered and blew its small steam whistles to 

 warn me away from the window, from the sight 

 of the naked trees, and the cold, thick fog upon the 

 meadow, and the blur of the pine woods beyond, 

 and the rain falling down, down, down. 



A dreary world out of doors surely, with not a 

 sign of life ! The pine tree, rising up above the hill- 

 side in front of the window, was green, but only a 

 few lifeless leaves rattled among the middle branches 

 of the oaks, while up in the stark top of a hickory 

 sapling was wedged a robin's nest, deserted and wet 

 and going to pieces. 



I shivered, in spite of the hearth-fire behind me, 

 for the face of the gray gloom pressed close up 

 against the window outside. And the empty robin's 



