Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 136, vol. III, August 7, 1886

No. 136.—Vol. III.
Price 1½ d.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 7, 1886.
BY RICHARD JEFFERIES.
The window rattled, the gate swung, a leaf rose, and the kitten chased it, ‘whoo-oo’ the faintest sound in the keyhole. I looked up, and saw the feathers on a sparrow’s breast ruffled for an instant. It was quiet for some time: after a while it came again with heavier purpose. The folded shutters shook; the latch of the kitchen door rattled as if some one were lifting it and dropped it; indefinite noises came from up-stairs: there was a hand in the house moving everything. Another pause. The kitten was curled up on the window-ledge outside in the sunshine, just as the sleek cats curled up in the warmth at Thebes of old Egypt five or six thousand years ago; the sparrow was happy at the rose-tree; a bee was happy on a broad dandelion disc. ‘Soo-hoo!’—a low whistle came through the chink; a handful of rain was flung at the window; a great shadow rushed up the valley and strode the house in an instant as you would get over a stile. I put down my book and buttoned my coat. Soo-hoo! the wind was here and the cloud—soo-hoo! drawing out longer and more plaintive in the thin mouthpiece of the chink. The cloud had no more rain in it, but it shut out the sun; and all that afternoon and all that night the low plaint of the wind continued in sorrowful hopelessness, and little sounds ran about the floors and round the rooms.
Still soo-hoo all the next day and sunlessness, turning the mind, through work and conversation, to pensive notes. At even, the edge of the cloud lifted over the forest hill westwards, and a yellow glow, the great beacon-fire of the sun, burned out, a conflagration at the verge of the world. In the night, awaking gently as one who is whispered to—listen! Ah! All the orchestra is at work—the keyhole, the chink, and the chimney; whoo-hooing in the keyhole, whistling shrill whew-w-w! in the chink, moaning long and deep in the chimney. Over in the field the row of pines was sighing; the wind lingered and clung to the close foliage, and each needle of the million, million leaflets drew its tongue across the organ blast. A countless multitude of sighs made one continued distant undertone to the wild roar of the gable close at hand. Something seemed to be running with innumerable centipede feet over the mouth of the chimney, for the long deep moan, as I listened, resolved itself into a quick succession of touches, just as you might play with your finger-tips tattooing on the hollow table. In the midst of the clangour, the hearing settled down to the sighing of the pines, which drew the mind towards it, and soothed the senses to sleep.