Rain drumming on the windows while wind makes the pines roar is certainly a winter sound. It was worth waiting until spring to hear it. Now the clouds have collapsed, and the forest is wreathed in fog, but the wind still blows. Dawn nears, destined to be gray and tumultuous, all flying tatters and torn blossoms, sodden, and filled with ragged flights of cawing crows. There will be more rain, I'm sure, to shatter the dark mirrors of streets which now lie empty, awaiting the first reflections to fall of wind-tossed trees soon to be washed in pale morning light. The late-arriving storm is unspent, and the early lilacs will be torn asunder in March, that should have bloomed in April. How many new-built nests, I wonder, have been cast into the mud this night? More are apt to follow. Yet, though the seasons may have played false, the destruction this has wrought does not diminish the splendor of this storm. Had it been timely, it would have been glorious to behold, and for the same reasons must be so now.