The Rescue of an Old Place 



A d*iay*d No early frost blighted the cornfield, or 

 marred the golden pumpkin's fairness. 

 No rain made the apple and pear gather- 

 ing a disappointment and a sorrow. Late 

 flowers lined the garden -walks in un- 

 chilled splendor until mid-October, while 

 the soft September haze and the mellow 

 glow of the suceeding month showed Ma- 

 ples in full green leaf, and Oaks with 

 only a touch of ripened crimson. 



When the autumn comes thus slowly to 

 maturity, a tinge of russet and gold creeps 

 softly into the landscape. Here and there 

 is the accent of a red leaf or branch, like 

 the note of a trumpet in an orchestra. Soft 

 browns steal into the meadows, and form 

 a shade on northern slopes. Dead are 

 the Goldenrods and Asters, faded the 

 roadside flowers. The Rose-hips make 

 ruddy gleams in the bushes, and a few be- 

 lated Barberries cling to their thorny stems 

 in wizened splendor, while other berries, 

 purple and black, cluster by the fences, 

 and the nut-trees hang out their smooth 

 or prickly burrs, promising a harvest of 

 brown fruit 



This is the green old age of the year, 



