And I, the observer--worse, the accessory--know, in advance, when the
metamorphosis will transpire.
When, on my desk-pad calendar the month recorded is October, and the
day begins with a twenty, there comes the first premonition of winter;
not the reality, but a premonition; when, at noon the sun is burning
hot, and, in the morning, frost glistens on the pavements; when the
leaves are falling steadily in the parks, and not a bird save the
ubiquitous sparrow is seen, I begin to suspect.
But when at last, of an afternoon, the wind switches with a great
flurry from south to dead north, and on the flag-pole atop of the
government building there goes up this signal: [Transcriber's Note:
signal flag image here]; and when later, just before retiring, I
surreptitiously slip out of doors, and, listening breathlessly, hear
after a moment despite the clatter of the wind, high up in the
darkness overhead that muffled _honk!_ _honk!_ _honk!_ of the
Canada-goose winging on its southern journey in advance of the coming
storm--then I _know_.
So well do I know, that I do not retire--not just yet. Instead, on a
pretext, any pretext, I knock out the ashes from my old pipe, fill it
afresh, and wait. I wait patiently, because, inevitable as Fate,
inevitable as that call from out the dark void of the sky, I know
there will come a trill of the telephone on the desk at my elbow; my
own Polly--whose name happens to be Mary--is watching as I take down
the receiver to reply.