It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognize the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilization, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney.
From the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,
The Five Orange Pips,
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
My thoughts One can hear the roar of the wind, the shaking of the house, rains pelting the windows and doors, causing some discomfort in ones mind, hoping the home can withstand the fury of nature.
I have always admired his writing, just wanted to share.