72 MISSOURI STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 



Ere, in the northern gale 



The summer tresses of the trees are gone, 

 The woods of autumn, all around our vale, 



Have put their glory on . 

 The mountains that infold 



In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, 

 Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold , 



That guard the enchanted ground. 

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Let in through all the trees, 



Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright ; 

 Their sunny colored foliage in the breeze 



Twinkles like beams of light. 



Ah ! 'twere a lot too blest 



Forever in thy colored shades to stray ; 

 Amid the kisses of the soft southwest 



To roam and dream for aye ; 

 And leave the vain low strife 



That makes men mad — the tug for wealth and power, 

 The passions and the cares that Avither life 



And waste its little hour. 



We have the means of warmth and comfort in our dwellings against 

 winter's cold and storm, but the all-pervading heat of summer and the 

 choking and almost omnipresent dust we know not how to escape, 

 except taking timely flight in the direction of the polar star. 



Autumn is not so much in a hurry as spring ; his processes are 

 slower — as when one filters life-renewing tonics from aromatic herbs 

 and gums, we try to expel the water and retain the honey and the 

 aroma. Fruits which are quick to ripen are generally soon gone, while 

 those that mature slower are of firmer texture and longer keepers. 



The autumn just passed was of full and generous measure, and so 

 slow were the ripening up processes of nature that our little garden 

 furnished plenty of flowers, even roses, of which we gathered a boquet 

 of six varieties on November 14, and there are even now (Nov. 27) a 

 number of buds on both tea roses and remontants, checked indeed by 

 the frosts of the last three nights, but not killed; two warm days would 

 bring them out fully. 



We had but a taste of "the melancholy days, the saddest of the 

 year," and it was soon forgotten by reason of the perfect days which 

 followed. Bryant writes : 



And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come 



To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 



When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, 



And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 



The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, 



And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 



