_The winter broods on all between--
In every furrow lies;
Nor is there aught of summer green,
Nor blue of summer skies_.

_Athwart the dark grey rain-clouds flash
The seabird's sweeping wings,
And through the stark and ghostly ash
The wind of winter sings_.

_The purple woods are dim with rain,
The cornfields dank and bare;
And eyes that look for golden grain
Find only stubble there_.

_And while I write, behold the night
Comes slowly blotting all,
And o'er grey waste and meadow bright
The gloaming shadows fall_.

"_From Two Windows_."


The wide frith lay under the manse windows of the parish of Dour. The
village of Dour straggled, a score of white-washed cottages, along four
hundred yards of rocky shore. There was a little port, to attempt which
in a south-west wind was to risk an abrupt change of condition. This was
what made half of the men in the parish of Dour God-fearing men. The
other half feared the minister.