"THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET" 109 



place by man and have lapsed into the primeval 

 arrangement of valleys and moraines, a logical 

 result of first causes. There is a restful, old-home 

 feeling about the old barn and this old lane, and it 

 is no wonder the wild flowers that have strolled 

 into it love to remain. 



All September it has been golden with the velvety 

 yellow blooms of the fall dandelion, a milky way 

 of yellow stars that twinkled as the wee winds 

 slip through the pasture bars and wander down 

 the lane. Now, with October at hand, they pale 

 a little at the thought of coming winter, as the 

 stars do at the approach of dawn, and here and 

 there is one that is shivering into white pappus, 

 ready to vanish, ghost like, down the wind. But 

 these are but few; most of them hold their gold 

 bravely toward the sun still and valiantly deny 

 that there is anything to be afraid of. The grass 

 is as green and velvety there as in spring, but the 

 other denizens of this lane know that winter is 

 coming and show it. The cinnamon and royal 

 ferns that have come up from the meadow in times 

 past and now snuggle their roots down between 

 the very stones of the foundation of the wall, 



