A New Face at the Door. 149 



sprays of barberry, tasselled with crimson fruit, boughs 

 of hedge-maple, touched with autumn gold. 



It is in letters such as these that Nature loves to 

 write the story of the year, in clear and vivid signs 

 that he who runs may read. 



And among the houses of the hamlet, that nestle 

 half-hidden among sheltering trees, are the sounds of 

 the labours of the autumn — the sound of the flail upon 

 the granary floor, the low rumble of the cider mill ; 

 while the scent of the crushed apples hangs heavy on 

 the air, and from distant fields of stubble comes the 

 creaking of the plough. 



Not yet, from the orchards, has all the fruit been 

 gathered in. 



Still upon the lichened boughs hangs the rich 

 harvest, of russet, and crimson, and gold. Heaped 

 high in the long grass among the trees, piles of bright 

 fruit are ready for the waggon, that even now is brim- 

 ming over with its fragrant load. 



Windfalls, scattered broadcast right and left, shine 

 like fire among the green— apples of Sodom, some of 

 them, for all their beauty, with rough taste that defends 

 them well. 



Here the wasps hold high revel among the fallen 

 fruit. Starlings and finches make havoc of the 

 scattered spoil. Rooks, too, are terrible fellows in an 

 orchard, and will make short work of the fruit of any 

 particular tree that may happen to take their fancy. 



Perhaps the most destructive visitor ever known 



