VII 
A MADRIGAL OF THE NIGHT 
HERE had been long and hungry drought. 
Rain had come by promise, rather than ful- 
fillment, the skies clouding up with furious 
haste which promised bounteous downpour and 
the promise proving a Falstaffian veracity. No 
rain, just drought and the withered corn forcing 
itself toward withered tasseling. The afternoon 
had furnished its riot of promissory rain and had, 
as in a spirit of repentance, supplied a few drops, 
just enough to give the ground the blessed smell 
which intoxicates lovers of the country ways. 
And I landed at a station where I had not 
been before and cannot say I care to be again, 
save as there was night there and silence and the 
dome of the sky. I was waiting to be carted 
across lots to a town on a neighboring railroad. 
I was not in haste. I was not worried. I was 
alone and in the gathering night; and the clouds 
hung in solace of unfulfilled benediction. I 
walked up and down the little tract of ground 
allotted me by the waiting for the cart and the 
carting. The gloaming was sweet with the 
dust-breath subdued and sweetened by the rain. 
Not a voice of any living thing was abroad in 
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