“The oldest voice in the world is the wind. When it murmurs in summer’s leaves, it seems an idle trifler. When in the night it goes wandering by, setting the old house faintly to groaning, it sounds like a pilgrim that has lost the road. When you see it fitfully turning the blades of a mill lazily to draw water, you think of it as an unreliable servant of man. But in truth, it is one of our masters, obedient only to the lord sun and the whirling of the great globe itself.”