recede / advance

“There is Grandmamma’s Soul, flying right now,” cried the little boy. “The Devil must be mad he missed it.”

The Storm moved on, but the Golden Bird remained and made her nest in the ruined tree. Out of her throat came a bitter song, repeated endlessly:
"Murder! Murder! Murder!"

By day she flew over the City wall and haunted the markets, disturbing the hearts of all who heard her.
By night she lay in the fallen branches, weeping so loudly that the Tailor and his wife had no sleep.

"Murder! Murder! Murder!" trilled the Golden Bird.