Bennington awoke early the next morning, a pleased glow of anticipation

warming his heart, and almost before his eyes were opened he had raised

himself to leap out of the bunk. Then with a disappointed sigh he sank

back. On the roof fell the heavy patter of raindrops.

After a time he arose and pulled aside the curtains of a window. The

nearer world was dripping; the farther world was hidden or obscured by

long veils of rain, driven in ragged clouds before a west wind.

Yesterday the leaves had waved lightly, the undergrowth of shrubs had

uplifted in feathery airiness of texture, the ground beneath had been

crisp and aromatic with pine needles. Now everything bore a drooping,

sodden aspect which spoke rather of decay than of the life of spring.

Even the chickens had wisely remained indoors, with the exception of a

single bedraggled old rooster, whose melancholy appearance added

another shade of gloom to the dismal outlook. The wind twisted his long

tail feathers from side to side so energetically that, even as

Bennington looked, the poor fowl, perforce, had to scud, careened from

one side to the other, like a heavily-laden craft, into the shelter of

his coop. The wind, left to its own devices, skittered across

cold-looking little pools of water, and tried in vain to induce the

soaked leaves of the autumn before to essay an aerial flight.

The rain hit the roof now in heavy gusts as though some one had dashed

it from a pail. The wind whistled through a loosened shingle and

rattled around an ill-made joint. Within the house itself some slight

sounds of preparation for breakfast sounded the clearer against the

turmoil outside. And then Bennington became conscious that for some

time he had felt another sound underneath all the rest. It was grand

and organlike in tone, resembling the roar of surf on a sand beach as

much as anything else. He looked out again, and saw that it was the

wind in the trees. The same conditions that had before touched the harp

murmur of a stiller day now struck out a rush and roar almost

awe-inspiring in its volume. Bennington impulsively threw open the

window and leaned out.

The great hill back of the camp was so steep that the pines growing on

its slope offered to the breeze an almost perpendicular screen of

branches. Instead of one, or at most a dozen trees, the wind here

passed through a thousand at once. As a consequence, the stir of air

that in a level woodland would arouse but a faint whisper, here would

pass with a rustling murmur; a murmur would be magnified into a noise

as of the mellow falling of waters; and now that the storm had

awakened, the hill caught up its cry with a howl so awful and sustained

that, as the open window let in the full volume of its blast,

Bennington involuntarily drew back. He closed the sash and turned to

dress.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024