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No matter where we find ourselves in these stories, the author’s mind, and thus the reader’s, seems turned like a weathercock toward Homewood.

There was a gust of wind, then, so strong that it rattled the windows of the village, and whirled and spun the weathercocks until they could not tell north from west or south from east.

The bronze weathercock tumbled, taking with it three relics sealed inside in 1935.

There was a flagstaff in the garden, and on the roof was a gilt weathercock shaped like a telescope.

What makes this ten times worse than otherwise it would be, we are never constant to one dress, but are as fickle and uncertain as weathercocks—or the men that preach under them.