A forlorn bird here and there made a thin piping, as it flitted homelessly amid the bleached long grasses, and the frail silk of the milkweed pods came floating along ghostlike on the evening breeze.
Yes! It was true.

Summer was beginning to pack up, the great stage-carpenter was about to change the scene, and the great theatre was full of echoes and sighs and sounds of farewell.

Of course, we had known it for some time, but had not had the heart to admit it to each other, could not find courage to say that one more golden Summer was at an end.
But the paper I had torn from the roadside left us no further shred of illusion.

There was an authoritative announcement there was no blinking, a notice to quit there was no gain-saying.
As I came to the crest of the hill, and in sight of the shack, shining with early lamp-light deep down among the trees of the gully, I could see Colin innocently at work on a salad, and hear him humming to himself his eternal "_Vive le Capitaine_." It was too pathetic.

I believe the tears came to my eyes.
"Colin," I said, as I at length arrived and set down my basket of potatoes, "read this." He took the paper from my hand and read: "_Sun-up Baseball Club.