230 U^alks in New England 



Indian Summer Reverie 



THE rare season of the year is passing 

 away. Gathering clouds forebode the 

 end of these Indian summer days, so per 

 fect in tranquil peace, the pause of Nature ere the 

 finishing frosts. The peculiar charm of earth at 

 this moment is a profound and serious sweetness. 

 Repose broods over the valleys and veils the 

 forests ; the hills melt into the melting sky ; high 

 the vapours of the fallen foliage mount in the at 

 mosphere ; sounds echo far yet soft across the 

 land ; the very caw of the crow loses its harsh 

 emphasis, and the bluejay s screams are in minor 

 keys. Now the chickadee s calls and the slight 

 whispers of the mountain sparrows are the chief 

 voices of the woodland and the copse ; the visit 

 ing snow-buntings lift their gleams of white as 

 they fly from bush to bush ; and over the marshes, 

 what is that swift vision of broad blue wings but 

 the blue heron, pausing in the journey of the year ? 

 The red squirrels chatter and scold, the chipmunks 

 skurry through the rustling leaves, and the grouse 



