| Butler Pennsylvania 6 Winter Afternoon The sounds of your mills have reached me at night and sometimes I think I hear the steam engines stomping in the yards out behind the hill or whistling like they did on entering town at the crossing by the creek— but never did I see a sky like yours on waning winter afternoons when I, a boy of four would find myself ensconced behind a frosted window scratching through ice to sit there rapt, gazing until light had given way to darkness. |