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The formless hills loom round about, the roads and marks of civilisation seem blotted out, it may be some absolute desert for aught that appears. An immense hollow filled with mist lies underneath. Presently the wind drifts the earth-cloud along, and there by a dark copse are three or four horsemen eagerly seeking a way through the plantation.
No one else could hear it a rod in this raging, howling, shrieking storm, in which awful sounds come out of the air itself, and not alone from the things against which it beats. And there is no one else to hear. You gaze about with snow-smitten eyeballs for some possible light from a friendly window. Why, the sun itself could not pierce this moving earth-cloud of snow!
You can read the mind of Gunner Fritz. 'Try the lower corner! says he, and up goes the earth-cloud once again. 'Perhaps it's hid about the middle. I'll try. Earth again, and nothing more. 'I believe I was right the first time after all, says hopeful Fritz. So another shell comes into the top corner. The field is as full of pits as a Gruyere cheese, but Fritz gets nothing by his perseverance.
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