I sit up in the hills, mining. The autumn air is crystal about me. The strokes of my drill ring steady and even. ?sop looks at me with wondering eyes. Wave after wave of content swells through my breast. No one knows that I am here among the lonely hills.

The birds of passage have gone; a happy journey and welcome back again! Titmouse and blackcap and a hedge-sparrow or so live now alone in the bush and undergrowth: tuitui! All is so curiously changed — the dwarf birch bleeds redly against the grey stones, a harebell here and there shows among the heather, swaying and whispering a little song: sh! But high above all hovers an eagle with outstretched neck, on his way to the inland ridges.

And the evening comes; I lay my drill and my hammer in under the rock and stop to rest. All things are glooming now. The moon glides up in the north; the rocks cast gigantic shadows. The moon is full; it looks like a glowing island, like a round riddle of brass that I pass by and wonder at. ?sop gets up and is restless.

“What is it, ?sop? As for me, I am tire............