She caught at one of the braids of her hair and threw it across
her eyes, and then silent convulsive sobs rent and tore her, tore her.
The torrent of her tears raining down into his tears.
Tears not for Life's faults but for Life when there are no
faults. They locked in each other's arms--trying to save each other on
Nature's vast lonely, tossing, uncaring sea.
The rush of children's feet was heard in the hall and there was
smothered laughter at the door and the soft turning of the knob.
It was Christmas Morning.
* * * * *
The sun rose golden and gathering up its gold threw it forward over
the gladness of the Shield. The farmhouse--such as the poet had sung
of when he could not help singing of American home life--looked out
from under its winter roof with the cheeriness of a human traveller
who laughs at the snow on his hat and shoulders. Smoke poured out of
its chimneys, bespeaking brisk fires for festive purposes. The oak
tree beside it stood quieted of its moaning and tossing. Soon after
sunrise a soul of passion on scarlet wings, rising out of the
snow-bowed shrubbery, flew up to a topmost twig of the oak; and
sitting there with its breast to the gorgeous sun scanned for a little
while that landscape of ice.
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