The Eambles of an Idler 



ematical calculations. Life is weighted with 

 plain prose and to spare ; grant us, at least, the 

 poetry of one October day. 



Within the range of my rambles there are 

 few abrupt changes. I cannot recall any at 

 present. October is not something new, sepa- 

 rate and apart, but the summer's afterthought. 

 The last Turk's-cap lily had not fallen before 

 golden rod brightened the dingy weeds along 

 the roadside ; that was in August, and now crim- 

 son leaves still cling to the maples, and scarlet 

 creeper glows wherever it has found support 

 for its sinuous, tangled growth. Color contin- 

 ues, and what does it matter that it is not the 

 bloom of youth, but the hectic flush prophetic 

 of decay! October is better fitted for consid- 

 ering color, per se, rather than its chemistry. 

 The same is true of what we hear. Specific 

 identification is too serious a subject to be 

 undertaken now. It signifies nothing what 

 bird sings or chirps. We hear a sound that 

 shapes a day dream merely ; the bird is forgot- 

 ten ; we dally only with a wandering voice. 



So pass the idle hours of an October after- 

 noon. Idle, yet full of significance; so ful] that 



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