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CHUMS.
285
firmly as if he wanted to beat the earth with his feet and do her a mischief.
The day was already breaking. The sky was grey and cheerless; a savage silence prevailed in the ravine; only the stream, disturbing no one, uttered its monotonous melancholy speech.
But hark, there's a rustle—maybe a clump of earth has rolled down the side of the ravine . . . The rook awakes, and, croaking uneasily, flies off elsewhere. Presently a titmouse utters her cry. In the damp cold air of the ravine sounds don't live long—they arise and immediately vanish.
The End.
