THE TIMES ARE WINTER, WATCH—

The apples on the tree are brighten ing and falling, the wind is rising after dark, the grass is green and rich and deep—so summer's lease hath all too short a date. Nothing like Damnation Alley, not yet, but soon, and here in Edmonton and across the province. Then the mercury will pinch down the glass along with the November rains, and finally like a lonely man falling, fall onto bare concrete ground. Then the wind will curl and snap through the skyscrapers which stand along the river like the squared unnatural mountains in a Lovecraft novella. Then the pretty girls will be wrapped in long well-cut wool coats, and the men will have knit black scarfs piled high up to their eyes. Then a lone bright window here and there after dark and perhaps the faint bass thump of a band canyoned away in the basement of the club on 102 Street will be the only indication that men and women live after dark. Still, in the long black doorway of winter, in the dark evenings coming quickly, one or two of us—and may I, along with the original philosopher, be among them—we shall discover that within us there lies an invincible summer.