When the Birds Fly South by Stanton A. Coblentz

With what sadness I watched the autumn gradually return to Sobul! The crimson and tan and russet woods, glowing with a forlorn and dying inner radiance, were tragic as with the sorrow of a crumbling universe; each frightened leaf that scurried earthward with a sharp blast, seemed laden with some hope that had withered; the legions of wild ducks and geese that went speeding ever, ever beyond the southern peaks, were to me awe-inspiring and solemn portents. And the clouds that came whirling and clustering by in troops and squadrons at the goad of the high wind, were grim with evil reminders; and their glee in overrunning the sky's blue and blurring the fringes of the peaks, was as the glee of those dark forces that invisibly blotted out my happiness.

Partly in order to drive tormenting premonitions from my mind, I tried to keep well occupied during those harrowing days. I had not forgotten the preparations I had made for the previous winter, nor the need of fortifying myself for the winter to come. Once again I gathered large supplies of food and firewood; once again I sealed all cracks and crannies in my cabin walls, procured heavy garments, and made ready for a hermit's life. And in these preparations Yasma helped me as energetically and skillfully as last year. But she worked sadly, and in silence; and often the tears were in her eyes as she stored the firewood in orderly heaps or arranged the dried fruits, nuts and grains in neat and convenient piles.