The Best Short Stories of 1921 and the Yearbook of the American Short Story

On this rainy day the leaves of the trees that line the road before my window are falling like rain, the yellow, red, and golden leaves fall straight down heavily. The rain beats them brutally down. They are denied a last golden flash across the sky. In October leaves should be carried away, out over the plains, in a wind. They should go dancing away.


Yesterday morning I arose at daybreak and went for a walk. There was a heavy fog and I lost myself in