There are persons also--but such sleep indoors--in whose ears the
wind whistles only gloomy tunes. Or if it rise to shrill piping, it
rouses only a fear of chimneys. Thus in both high pitch and low there
is fear in the hearing of it. Into their faces will come a kind of
God-help-the-poor-sailors-in-the-channel look, as in a melodrama when the
paper snowstorm is at its worst and the wind machine is straining at its
straps. One would think that they were afraid the old earth itself might
be buffeted off its course and fall afoul of neighboring planets.

But behold the man whose custom is to sleep upon a porch! At what
slightest hint--the night being yet young, with scarce three yawns gone
round--does he shut his book and screen the fire! With what speed he bolts
the door and puts out the downstairs lights, lest callers catch him in the
business! How briskly does he mount the stairs with fingers already on the
buttons! Then with what scattering of garments he makes him ready, as
though his explosive speed had blown him all to pieces and lodged him
about the room!

Then behold him--such general amputation not having proved
fatal--advancing to the door muffled like a monk! There is a slippered
flight. He dives beneath the covers. (I draw you a winter picture.) You
will see no more of him now than the tip of his nose, rising like a little
AEtna from the waves.

But does _he_ fear the wind as it fumbles around the porch and plays like
a kitten with the awning cords? Bless you, he has become a playmate of the
children of the night--the swaying branches, the stars, the swirl of
leaves--all the romping children of the night. And if there was any fear
at all within the darkness, it has gone to sulk behind the mountains.

[Illustration]

But the wind sings a sleepy song and the game's too short. Then the wind
goes round and round the house looking for the leaves--for the wind is a
bit of a nursemaid--and wherever it finds them it tucks them in, under
fences and up against cellar windows where they will be safe until
morning. Then it goes off on other business, for there are other streets
in town and a great many leaves to be attended to.

But the fellow with the periscopic nose above the covers lies on his back
beneath the stars, and contemplation journeys to him from the wide spaces
of the night.

MAPS AND RABBIT-HOLES

[Illustration]

MAPS AND RABBIT-HOLES

In what pleasurable mystery would we live wer