"Wild nights--Wild nights!" as Emily D. wrote, in memory or anticipation of some long-past New England night that may or may not have involved weather. I can assure you that my wild night was all about weather. For hours, sleet has been whipping frost-stones against the bayside window, which is now completely encased in ice. All night I imagined the bedroom as a treehouse, with a perpetual wind tearing at the siding and pellets of frost rattling and pounding, speeding and slowing, but never ceasing. It seems that every school in the state is canceled today, and the intersection below me, usually so busy, is empty, except for the frozen cars parked along the verge. And still sleet keeps tapping and rattling, faster and slower, faster and slower, in rhythm with the gusts of wind; and I imagine that now is the time that a fairy tale princess, disguised in rags, will knock on my door and beg for shelter; or Mr. Micawber will clank a shovelful of coal onto the parlor fire, mix up a beaker of hot gin-and-lemon, pass around the buttered toast, and launch into a ghost story. It's that kind of weather.