"The wild geese fly north again in spring," said Buck, "and he'll—"
"Hush!" she said. "Listen!"
Far off, above the rushing of the wind, they heard the weird whistling, a thrilling and unearthly music. It was sad with the beauty of the night. It was joyous with the exultation of the wind. It might have been the voice of some god who rode the northern storm south, south after the wild geese, south with the untamed.