THE PRODIGAL SON Clutter horsed with a windmill amid the pattermarks and drew up worn socks at the door, steaming, and over where the tongue wagged the knocker knocked: Not-a-rat! not-a-tatter! -- so like it was, till a hole came bright with eyes and the awl said, Who goes there? in a long, lust whisper. And it was raining cats and digs beyond the hills, but inside the hall a sing of lightness swooned upon the floor and a brought of gladness felt ringing for the sonly neck and sweetly crossed the bliss-adders in that kinly frame: for O! my sin (he said) has come home to me, my long-last sin, forever at my buck and kill, has come home to me! And a snake cropped out of his netted hair and the clouts dripped slowly down as the naked sun wished clean on an open door in a land that was loud with cheer, while he, the faster, took sweet flesh from the hand of his havenly lord. Now another son belingered there, older than the first, amad in the shadows against the shine of the homecomer: but the smile of his father, combing swiftly the outer dark, caught him broody in a silver wring. For O! my sin (he said) was lust and is fond, and this is meat for you, as well for me.