“It can get bitter on these heights, and the winds, how they blow. There has been many a roaring night Hector and I have thought we would perish on this Hill, but, of course, how could we? What comfort is the hearth fire without raw weather howling outside the door, and what pleasure is there in rest unless the day’s toil was almost more than you could bear?”

“Which were your greatest storms?” I asked.

He furrowed his brow. “We’ve had so many,” he spoke slowly, “and each comes upon us afresh, as if it never had a predecessor. It is a curious truth that I cannot remember the snows here in any particular…at night, it is not these storms that I dream about, but always springtimes and storms below. In my dreams, I forget my century in heaven and recall only my few springtimes on earth.”

– Donald McCaig