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Updated: June 7, 2025
Built of stone brought from great distances, stone of delicate pink from Tennessee, carved, wide of door, alight with windows, it was a marvel to those who came and stood by, watching the building of it. "A beautiful house," they called it. "A beautiful house!" There was no word of Seth in regard to the beautiful house that Cyclona failed to remember.
And she shall have carriages and coachmen and footmen. A Victoria, I think I shall odah fo' her, ve'y elegant, lined with blue to match her eyes.... No that would be too light. Her eyes are beautiful, Cyclona.
I think after," with another smile in his direction, "we'll let some other lone single woman have this job who needs the money. We won't keep the Post Office any longer." The Professor smiled a silent assent. "But the most wonderful thing of all," went on the Post Mistress, "is that girl Cyclona. All of twenty-seven or eight, but she looks like a girl.
It was in this way that Cyclona blew into their lives and came to be something of a companion to Celia, though, realizing that the girl was a distinct outgrowth of the country she so detested, she never came to care for her with that affection which she had felt for her Southern girl friends.
In her dream, Cyclona looked long and lovingly at the strong, fine lines of it brought out by this unexpected high light of the skies, accentuated Rembrandt-like against the darkness of the hole in the ground. Yes. It was in the hole in the ground and not that other room of the Beautiful House. As she looked the calm dream face of Seth turned to her with a smile of ineffable content.
Cyclona nodded a delighted assent, caught the mane of her broncho, and swung herself into her saddle with the ease and grace of a cowboy. Seth was suddenly engrossed with the fear that Celia, seeing the girl come out of the Nowhere, as she had come upon him, might be frightened into the ungraciousness of unsociability. "Wait," he cried. "I will go with you."
He waved a rough hand toward Cyclona, sitting astride her broncho, a child of the desert, untamed as a coyote, an animated bronze of the untrammelled West emphasized by the highlights of sunshine glimmering on curl and dimple, on broncho mane and hoof, and backed by the brilliancy of sky, the far away line of the horizon and the howl of the wind.
She knows bettah than to bloom in this God-fo'saken country that was what she called it wheah you cain't get the flowahs to bloom because of the wind that is fo'evah blowin'. She lives now wheah the flowahs bloom and the wind nevah blows." Cyclona lifted her head to listen to the moan and the sough of the wind. "I love it," she said.
His eyes were dry; but a spring had broken somewhere near the region of his heart. He owned himself defeated. He gave up the fight. Cyclona had gone to Seth's dugout and found a note from him on the table. It contained few words, but they held a world of meaning. Simple words and few, tolling her knell of doom. "I have gone to Celia," it read.
He was filled with the passion of wander-lust. The darkened walls of the dugout restricted him, those grim, gray earth walls that duskily, grave-like, enclosed the body of him. He must be up and away. He would go to the heart of the wind and find his mother. Seth had gone to the town for feed for his cattle. Cyclona was at home. He took advantage of their absence to start on his journey.
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