WHEN THE OAKS WEAR DAMSON 



winter comes. Piled, tumbling ears, their 

 grain set in many a curious pattern, go 

 by to the sorting floor and crib, with 

 pumpkins, the satraps of New England, 

 perched in rickety fashion on the gleam- 

 ing load. The mountain ash hangs flam- 

 boyant clusters along the road from the 

 field. Obedient to the frost, the acorns 

 are dropping, and the first chestnuts lie, 

 polished mahogany, in the whitened grass 

 at sunrise. The shagbark has scattered 

 its largess, the butternut its dainties in 

 their staining coats. Against the slopes 

 the tinted fern patches show bronze, rus- 

 set, and pansy brown. Speaking October 

 and our own purple East, the tall asters, 

 darkening from lavender to the ultimate 

 shadowy violet, join the goldenrod. Su- 

 macs are thronging, with their proudly 

 blazoned crests; the haw is hung with 

 Chinese scarlet lanterns; sweetbrier, stem 

 and leaf, is scented of menthol and spices 

 of the Orient. The oaks stand regal in 

 umber and damson. Who that has known 

 October could ever forget? How quiet the 

 nights are after frost! 



[59] 



