The Birds' Calendar 



fruition of spring's thrilling promises. Spring 

 is the buoyant morn ; autumn, the evening hour 

 of a fair summer's day, when level sunbeams 

 here and there sift through the trees, and gild 

 some lower branch ; silence begins her nightly 

 reign, and dewy coolness fills the air. And 

 autumn is better than summer, too ; for one 

 reason, among others, because more positive : 

 it is culmination, not transition. Its individu- 

 ality is complete. It begins and ends its own 

 story, whereas summer is a sort of second vol- 

 ume of spring, the sequel of a tale that is grow- 

 ing a little prolix. 



To be sure, it is ebb-tide, but we have at 

 least passed the dull equipoise of summer, and 

 there is more exhilaration in going, even if 

 going to destruction, than in tamely standing 

 still. A mid-summer landscape burns in an 

 unvaried, noon-tide glare ; while florid au- 

 tumn's chiaroscuro is incomparable. The ver- 

 tical sun casts no shadows, and summer must be 

 painted lightly : in water -colors, rather than in 

 oils. The declining sun makes deep contrasts 

 of light and shade, and with its ripened tints 

 of landscape autumn must be painted richly 

 and heavily. Summer is strong in crops, weak 

 in poetry. Perhaps she is the most practical 



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