Night came, and still the snow fell, and the wind blew in all its fury.
It was on that cold, stormy night that a bright light might have been seen burning in the little house where Hanz Toodleburg lived.

The storm had shook its frame from early morning; and now the windows rattled, discordant sounds were heard on the veranda, wind sighed through the crevices, and fine snow rifted in under the door and through the latch-hole, and tossed itself into little drifts on the floor.

Nyack was buried in a storm that night.

There was an old clock on the mantle-piece, and it kept on ticking, and its ticks could be heard above the storm.

And the bright oak fire in the great fireplace threw out shadows that flitted over the great loom, and the wheels, and the festoons of dried apples, and the pumpkins that hung from the beams overhead.