When the birds fly south

by Stanton A. Coblentz

And then, one day when October was a little beyond mid-career, I thought I detected another change. At first I was not sure, and accused my imagination of playing pranks; but it was not long before I ceased to have any doubts. The population of Sobul was dwindling! Not half so many children as before were romping in the open among the houses, not half so many women could be seen bustling about the village, or so many men roaming the fields—the entire place wore a sudden air of desolation. And in more than one cabin, previously the home of a riotous family, the doors swung no longer upon their wooden hinges, but through the open window-places I caught glimpses of bare floors and dark walls innocent of human occupancy.

When had the people gone? And where? I had not seen anyone leave, nor been told that anyone was to leave; and I witnessed no ceremonies of farewell. Could the missing ones be victims of some terror that came down "like a wolf on the fold" and snatched them away in the night? Or were they merely visiting some other tribe in some other secluded valley?

These problems puzzled me incessantly; but when I turned to the Ibandru for information, their answers were tantalizing. They did not deny that some of their tribesmen had left, and did not claim that this had been unexpected or mystifying; but they were either unable or unwilling to furnish any details; and I was not sure whether they felt that I was probing impertinently into their affairs, or whether some tribal or religious mandate sealed their lips.

I particularly remember the answers of Karem and Yasma. The former, with his usual jovial way of avoiding the issue, advised me to have no worries; the whole matter was really no concern of mine, and I might be assured that the missing ones were not badly off or unhappy. By this time I must have learned that the Ibandru had queer ways, and I must prepare for things queerer still; but, until I was one with the tribe at heart, I must not expect to understand.

Yasma's answer, though vague enough, was more definite.

"Our absent friends," she said, while by turns a sad and an exalted light played across her mobile features, "have gone the way of the birds that fly south. Yulada has beckoned them, and they have escaped the winter's loneliness and cold, and have hastened where the bright flowers are, and the butterflies and bees. See!"—Ecstatically she pointed to a triangle of swift-moving dots that glided far above through the cloudless blue.—"They are like the wild geese! They flee from the biting gales and the frost, and will not return till the warm days are here again and the leaves come back to the trees. We must all go like them—all of us, all, all!"

"And I too—must I go?" I asked, never thinking of taking her words literally.

Yasma hesitated. The light faded from her eyes; an expression of sorrow, almost of compassion, flooded her face.

"That I cannot say," she returned, sadly. "You must feel the call within you, feel it as the birds do, drawing you on to lands where robins sing and the lilac blooms. No one can tell you how to feel it; it must come from within or not at all, and you yourself must recognize it. But oh, you cannot help recognizing it! It is so strong, so very strong!—and it takes your whole body and soul with it, draws you like a rainbow or a beautiful sunset; and bears you along as the wind bears a dead leaf. You cannot resist it any more than you can resist a terrible hunger—you must submit, or it will hurl you under!"

"I do not understand," said I, for despite the ardor of her words, I had only the dimmest idea of the overmastering force she described.