58 WITH EARTH AND SKY 
in the bones, when the camp is where the wild 
roses bloomed in June, and the wild birds build 
their nests singing, and on spring nights the 
frog note fills the lingering starlight with weird 
call, testimonial of creature gladness, and in 
August heats the locust strikes his one harp- 
string with a strum which vibrates as if August 
heat had oozed into a voice, and here where my 
wild crab fills at the blooming time all this hill- 
top air with a divine perfume, here a camp fire 
is a poem. But this is January and not April 
nor August nor June nor May. 
We have a straw sack at our back built for 
fracases like this. It smells good; and the fire 
sends puffs of genial smoke its way as with 
friendly intent to warm these aged wheat stalks. 
And the stack feels good. The north wind 
plunges at it as in pure pugnacity or as if it 
were a besieged fortress. Boom, boom, rouse the 
winds. Plainly, spring will never reach this 
winter-conquered hill. Snows spurt into the sky 
in swaying spirals, and grow jocund with the 
wind. New forms of drifts are created every 
hour. Snow buntings should be here. This is 
their weather. They are not. No bird is here 
now. ‘The hill is solitary of every living thing 
but ourselves. The wood smoke swirls and plunges 
every whither as if loath to leave the fire. Our 
eyes smart with the smoke but love it none the 
less. Shouts of the wind grow uproarious like 
Indian raiders, when beyond all imagining and 
