THE DEATH My poor mother lay picking the bedclothes and a dog was howling in the yard: we heard her name called three times and a door opened and shut by itself: we laid her on the floor to lessen her woe and a mouse squeaked . . . but she died all the same. Then we opened all the windows and untied all the knots, covered the looking-glass and told the bees, put out the fire and rang a bell six times . . My lover took his hand from his pocket and I was sobbing when he led me away.