The Road to Dumbiedykes 



drink, and listen to the gurgling of the 

 water in the spouts, or the dripping 

 from the eaves. And if it grows too 

 damp at last, there always waits inside 

 a certain friend — the back-log. And 

 when the day is done, and the scorched 

 earth is still demanding more, yet 

 more, there is still the comfort of that 

 pillow as the rain pours on unceasingly 

 through the blackness of the night! 

 You are so snug and dry and satisfied. 

 The wind is rising now. It shakes a 

 cataract upon the roof from off the 

 overhanging branches, and while you 

 are on your way to dreamland its deep 

 retreating roar through the weeping, 

 bending oaks seems an echo of a heavy 

 surf upon a stormbeat shore. 



And the fresh beauty of a world re- 

 newed that greets the morning sun! 

 Who shall paint it? 



[128] 



