It was the season which Jolly Roger loved most of all, and it was the beginning of Peter's first September.
The days were still hot, but at night there was a bracing something in the air that stirred the blood, and Peter found a sharp, new note in the voices of the wild.

The wolf howled again in the middle of the night.
The loon forgot his love-sickness, and screamed raucous defiance at the moon.

The big snowshoes were no longer tame, but wary and alert, and the owls seemed to slink deeper into darkness and watch with more cunning.
And Jolly Roger knew the human masters of the wilderness were returning from the Posts to their cabins and trap-lines, and he advanced with still greater caution.

And as he went, watching for smoke and listening for sound, he began to reflect upon the many changes which five years might have produced among Yellow Bird's people.

Possibly other misfortunes had come, other winters of hunger and pestilence, scattering and destroying the tribe.