was veiled in a haze. A mystical haze and a splendor, a dreamy calm, was over all, for this was the Peace of the Smoking-days. This was the Indian Summer.
For ten fair days the Peace was smoked. The Fliers had gone and the Dwellers made ready. Then Ninna-bo-jou arose, and departing, he shook the ash from his pipe. A rising wind drifted its whiteness over the hills, blew all the smoke from the landscape. Now another feeling spreads abroad. The moon of the Falling leaves has waned, the Mad moon comes, awesome and chilling and dark. At morn there are spears of white on the ponds, there are tracks and signs — the signs of an on-coming enemy, of a foe irresistible. For this is the death of the Red Rose days; this is the dawn of the Mad moon gloom. This is the end of the joy and the light — the coming of Kabibonokka.