THe Bay of the Band 
wavering black figures, weary, retreating figures, 
beating over in the early dusk. 
To-night another wild storm sweeps across the 
January fields. All the afternoon the crows have 
been going over, and at five o’clock are still passing 
though the darkness settles rapidly. Now it is eight, 
and the long night is but just begun. The storm 
is increasing. 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 
the small flames flicker and go out? 
