THE MISSING TOOTH 



93 



long night is but just begun. The storm is increas- 

 ing. The wind shrieks about the house, whirling the 

 fine snow in hissing eddies past the corners and 

 driving it on into long, curling crests across the 

 fields. I can hear the roar as the wind strikes the 

 shoal of pines where the fields roll into the woods 

 a vast surf sound, but softer and higher, with a 

 wail like the wail of some vast heart in pain. 



I can see the tall trees rock and sway with their 

 burden of dark forms. As close together as they can 

 crowd on the bending limbs cling the crows, their 

 breasts turned all to the storm. With crops empty 

 and bodies weak, they rise and fall in the cutting, 

 ice-filled wind for thirteen hours of night. 



Is it a wonder that the life fires burn low? that 

 sometimes the small flames flicker and go out ? 





