“What is that funny creaking—do you hear?” “It is the shutter on the stairs, my dear.” “If you’re not sleeping, let’s turn on the light. I hate that wind! Let’s play some chess.” “All right.” “I’m sure it’s not the shutter. There—again.” “It is a tendril fingering the pane.” “What glided down the roof and made that thud?” 660 “It is old winter tumbling in the mud.” “And now what shall I do? My knight is pinned.” Who rides so late in the night and the wind? It is the writer’s grief. It is the wild March wind. It is the father with his child.
