Once it tossed a tumbleweed at the window. The great round human-like head looked in and the child, opening his eyes upon it, broke into piteous moaning. The wind laughed, snatched the tumbleweed and tossed it on. "The wind seems to be tryin' itself," complained Cyclona, getting up once more and walking about with the child in her arms, singing as she walked: "Sleep, baby, sleep, The big stars are the sheep, The little stars are the lambs, I guess, The wind is the shepherdess, Sleep, Baby, Sleep." The wind grew furious. With a wild yell it burst the door of the dugout open. Cyclona put the baby back on the bed, faced the fury of the wind a moment, then cried out to it: "Why can't you behave?" Then she shut the door and placed a chair against it, taking the baby up and again walking it back and forth, up and down and back and forth. "It's just tryin' itself," she repeated. Again she endeavored with the coo of the lullaby to entice the child into forgetting the wind. But the wind was not to be forgotten. It turned into a tornado. Failing of its effort to tear off the roof of the dugout, it stormed tempestuously, fretfully; it raved, it grumbled, it groaned. It screamed aloud with a fury not to be appeased or assuaged. Cyclona had taken her seat in the rocking chair near the hearth. She had laid the crying child in every possible position, across her knee face down, sitting on one of her knees, her hand to his back with gentle pats, and over her shoulder. All to no avail. It seemed as if the child would never quit sobbing. The sense of her helplessness joined with pity for his distress saddened her to tears. She was very tired. She had had charge of the child since early morning, when Seth, compelled to attend to his work in the fields, had left him to her. She bent forward and looked out the window where the long fingers of the ragged rosebush, torn by the wind, tapped ceaselessly at the pane. "Wind," she implored. "Stop blowing. Don't you know the little baby's mother has gone away? Don't you know the little baby hasn't any mother now; that she's left him and gone away?" It seemed that the wind had not thought of it in this way. Occupied only with Celia's departure, it had not considered the desolation it had caused. The long lithe fingers of the twigs ceased their tapping. The wind sobbed fitfully a moment, little sad remorseful penitential sobs, and died away softly across the prairie as a breath of May. The stillness which ensued was so deep and restful that the eyes of the child involuntarily closed. Cyclona pressed his little body close to her, his head in the hollow of her arm. She rocked him back and forth gently, singing: "Sleep, baby, sleep," the words coming slowly, she was so tired.