Excerpt from The Demagogue: A Political Novel
It was eleven o"clock at night, in one of the vast wildernesses that covered North-western Ohio fifty or sixty years ago. It was in November, the most dreary of all the months in that country - a month when the cold rains fall and are never weary, when Nature is in its most sullen temper, as though sensible that it had made a failure of spring and summer, and it was therefore anxious to wreak its vengeance upon the country by continuing in an ugly mood. The air was cold - so cold that the rain which was falling had changed its mind after leaving the clouds where it was born, and struck the earth in little pellets, just light enough to be carried on the wind, and just heavy enough to cut and bruise like bird-shot.
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