^ 



THE sun looms large above a sea of gauzy haze 

 which piles like airy surf against the forest's rim. 

 It is a windless, dreamy morning, rich with the 

 magic of the Indian summer, the glory of painted 

 leaves, the incense of ripe fruit. In the full fatness 

 ^of autumn's latter days the world is songless, silent, 

 fat. Those things which sleep that drowse the 

 long, white silence soon to be are round well-nigh 

 to bursting. Those things that durst not face the 

 nip of steel-skied nights have fled to kindlier climes, 

 while those other things which neither sleep nor 

 flee are revelling in a rich abundance. They know 

 what must come when Kee-way-din whines about 

 their brushy eaves and the strange, cold white 

 feathers fall. They know that the brushy and still 

 leafy cover will be flattened and that the white wolf 

 of the North will plunge and ramp and howl across 

 far leagues of whiteness. They know the present 

 business of their kind is to eat eat till craws and 

 skins are tight as drumheads, to wax fat because fat 

 things do not freeze, while they can, if need be, doze 



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