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.
Pages:
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106