se fo' her.

"Cyclona," wildly, "how could we expect a little delicate frail
Southern woman to come and live in a hole in the ground. How could we?
Why shouldn't she hate the wind? Ah! We must still the winds! We must
still the winds! But how?"

At this Seth was wont to rise, to walk the circumscribed length of his
miserable dwelling and to worry his soul.

"How shall we still the winds?" he would moan. "How shall we still the
winds that the soun' of them shall not disturb her?"

After a long time of thinking:

"Cyclona," he concluded, "in some countries they move forests. Don't
they? Have I read that or dreamed it? If only we could move a forest
or two onto these vast prairies, that would still the winds. Tall
trees penetratin' the skies would be impassable barriers to the
terrible winds that have full sweep as it is. They would still the
winds, those forests, if we could move them!"

Cyclona's heart was full at this; for Seth was far from sane, alas!
when he talked of moving forests of trees to the barren prairies. The
idea at last struck him as preposterous.

"We will build tall trees," he continued quickly, as if to cover the
tracks of his mistakes. "We will build trees that will taik root in
the night and spring up before morning. Trees that will grow and grow
and grow. Magic trees growing so quickly in the lush black soil of the
prairie once we get them started, the soil so neah the undahground
streams by the rivahs heah, that the angels would look down in
wondahment.

"They would, to see how quickly they would grow. Such trees would
tempah the winds that blow so now because they have full sweep,
because there is nothin' to stop them. Winds, laik everything else,
are amenable to control, if you only know how to control them. These
tall trees will not only break the force of the winds, but they will
shade her beautiful face as she drives about. They will shut off the
too ardent sun that would wish to kiss her."

Now and again Cyclona grew a trifle impatient of this beautiful
creature whose character she knew, whose child she had cared for and
helped to bury, grew a trifle tired of hearing hymns sung in her
praise.

"Where is she now?" she asked listlessly, knowing full well, merely to
continue if the talk pleased him, tired as she was.

"Charlie," smiled Seth, and never once did Cyclona correct him when he
called her Charlie, reasoning that perhaps the spirit of the child was
near him, since there we