Explore "Red Pottage" by Mary Cholmondeley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter--and the Bird is on the wing. --OMAR KHAYYÁM.
It was the third week of November. Winter, the destroyer, was late, but he had come at last. There was death in the air, a whisper of death stole across the empty fields and bare hill-side. The birds heard it and were silent. The November wind was hurrying round Westhope Abbey, shaking its bare trees.