Chapter VI 



IF Joe had been called to 

 choose the real merry month, 

 he would have pitched upon 

 November, yet not wholly 

 because of the hunting. 

 October brought the tragedy 

 of frost — it was pitiful to 

 see all the green things die, 

 even if the frost did paint the leaves so roy- 

 ally and bring so many things to full ripeness. 

 Maybe he was fanciful, but it seemed to him 

 the earth shrank from the frost, and grew 

 pinched in the first cold, as he himself shrank 

 and grew pinched. When three nights of 

 frost had ushered in a warm rainy week, he 

 thought the fields rejoiced and when the clouds 

 broke up into low clinging mists, he was sure 

 the trees sang together a low jubilant song. 



They ruffled lightly as they sang — thus 

 there was a plashing accompaniment — the 

 noise of the big mist drops pattering down. 



