“Kate!” groaned Buck Daniels, “you’ve
let him go! We’ve all lost him for ever!”
A sob answered him.
“Go call him back,” pleaded Joe.
“He will stay for your sake.”
She whispered: “I would rather call back
the wild geese who flew across the moon. And
they are only beautiful when they are wild!”
“But you’ve lost him, Kate, don’t
you understand?”
“The wild geese fly north again in spring,”
said Buck, “and he’ll—”
“Hush!” she said. “Listen!”
Far off, above the rushing of the wind, they heard
the weird whistling, a thrilling and unearthly music.
It was sad with the beauty of the night. It was
joyous with the exultation of the wind. It might
have been the voice of some god who rode the northern
storm south, south after the wild geese, south with
the untamed.
