THE JOY OF WINTER 25 
with his cricket voice, ‘‘Chickadee-dee-dee-dee!”’ 
And the night-clad crow caws with autumnal 
voice as to say all months are to his liking. But 
the music of winter is neither the music of leaves 
nor birds, but strident song of winter winds in 
branches. In winter wind is a weirdness which is 
to me like the blowing of bagpipes. This is the 
time of carnage, and battle calls fill the sky. The 
north wind puffs his cheeks and trumpets across the 
world. The flocks huddle, the herds shiver, the 
quails run in crowds fleet of foot as the very winds; 
the sparrows bicker from the hedgerows; the leaves 
huddle and toss at every whip of the wind and 
change their localities as frequently as a preacher. 
The whole spacious world has become a road- 
way for the truculent winter winds. All is open. 
The north wind strides along the highways. He 
washes across the cold shock-tented cornfields like 
some devastating sea. He climbs the snowy moun- 
tains with a sudden angry leap. He takes the 
breath of travelers. He garments the whole land- 
scape in storm. He hoots like the night owls; he 
whoops like a bloodthirsty Indian band; he ca- 
rouses like a drunkard; he shrieks like a maniac; 
he is sleepless as a sick man; he moans like the 
broken-hearted; he shouts like men in battle; he 
drives, a mad charioteer; he curses like a gam- 
bler who has staked all and lost all. The winter 
wind goeth every whither, calls down the chim- 
neys of the rich with a pitiful cry for admission, 
leaps into the frail houses of the very poor as if 
