The month is March, but casually glancing out of a western window as the sun sinks, one would take it for the last of April or early May. The bright blue sky, flecked here and there with patches of white cloud, gradually loses its identity of color and fades into nothingness.
The ever-present sparrows, a few stray Southern Warblers and other nomads seek their nests. The green of grass and tree, that has been brave enough to put forth its emerald dress earlier than the rest, fades into twilight. Near-by church spires, the out-standing sky-line of a building or two, look like sentinels in the fading light. An occasional cry of a weary child-the bark of a neighbor's dog-an auto's horn-a train whistle-a laborer's footstep-then night closes in-a rural village rests until morning.