He felt as if he had read his death-warrant, and it was useless ever again to open his eyes on this gray, impossible world.
He did not know how far he had come.

Everything about him was strange and unfriendly: the woods had turned to gaunt and gloomy skeletons that shivered and moaned in the wind; the sunny fields of ragweed were covered with a pall; and the river--his dancing, singing river--was a black and sullen stream that closed remorselessly over the dying snowflakes.

His woods, his fields, his river,--they knew him not; he stared at them blankly and they stared back at him.
A rabbit, frightened at his approach, jumped out of the bushes and went bounding down the track ahead of him.

The sight of the round little cottontail leaping from tie to tie brought a momentary diversion; but he did not want to be diverted.
With an effort he came back to his stern purpose.

He forced himself to face the facts and the future.