NOVEMBER. 



they are proceeding aloft to the places of their hyemal 

 abode. These different sounds, though unmusical and 

 melancholy, awaken many pleasant recollections of the 

 season, and always attract our attention. 



But silence for the most part prevails in the fields and 

 woods so lately vocal with cheerful notes. The birds 

 that long since discontinued their songs have forsaken 

 our territories, and but few are either heard or seen. 

 The grasshoppers have hung their harps upon the brown 

 sedges and are buried in a torpid sleep. The butterflies 

 also have perished with the flowers, and the whole tribe 

 of sportive insects that enlivened the prospect with their 

 motions have gone from our sight. Few sounds are heard 

 on still days, save the dropping of nuts, the rustling of 

 leaves, and the careering of the fitful winds that often 

 disturb the general calm. Beautiful sights and sounds 

 have vanished together, and the rambler who goes out to 

 greet the cheerful objects of nature finds himself alone, 

 communing only with silence and solitude. 



It is in these days of November that we most fully 

 realize how much of the pleasure of a rural excursion 

 is derived from the melodies that greet our ears during 

 the vocal months of the year. Since the merry-making 

 tenants of the groves have left them to inanimate 

 sounds Nature seems divested of life and personality. 

 While separated from all sounds of rejoicing and ani- 

 mation, we seem to be in the presence of friends who 

 are silent and mourning over some bereavement. In 

 the vocal season the merry voices of birds and insects 

 give life to the inanimate objects around us, and Nature 

 herself seems to be talking with us in our solitary but 

 not lonely walk. But when these gay and social crea- 

 tures are absent, the places they frequented are converted 

 into solitude. No cheerful voices are speaking to us, no 

 bright flowers are smiling upon us, and we feel like one 



