ALL AMONG THE BARLEY. 



1 Come out, 'tis now September ; 



The Hunter's Moon's begun, 

 And, through the wheaten stubble, 



Is heard the frequent gun. 

 All among the barley, 



Who would not be bliihe ; 

 When the free and happy barley 



Is smiling on the scythe ?' 



are on the threshold of the Autumn. Plain 

 to read are the tokens of its coming. 



Faint and shadowy lines they are which divide the 

 other seasons. Winter, ever parting with reluctance, 

 is apt to steal back in the night and leave his traces 

 even on the flowers. It were hard to say when Spring 

 has ended and the Summer set in. 



But the story of Autumn is traced in bolder letters 

 and more certain tones its closing chapters even in 

 characters of fire. 



The air grows sharper and the days draw in. Longer 

 still and heavier, lies the dew upon the glistening 

 fields. Grey mists, that after sundown brood over 



