THE FOREST IN AUTUMN. 283 



colors, has been painting with the most reckless 

 prodigality and in endless variety of beauty and 

 brightness. There is no end to his whims and con- 

 ceits — the changed landscape seems the work of one 

 in his most joyous, frolicsome mood. There stands a 

 single maple tree ; Autumn approached it last night, 

 and apparently from a mere whim, threw his brush 

 over the top, making it a scarlet red one third of the 

 way down, while the other portion he left green as in 

 its spring-time. He simply put a red cap on it and 

 passed on. On another, he has run his brush along a 

 single limb, which flashes out from the deep bosom of 

 green in singular contrast. Yonder is an open grove 

 which he has hurried through, touching here and 

 there a tree with his reckless brush, till it is spotted 

 up with all the colors of the rainbow. He has 

 painted one all yellow, another all red, a third left 

 untouched, and a fourth sprinkled over with a shower 

 of colors, as if he had simply shaken his brush over 

 it in mirth. 



He has brought out colors where you never dis- 

 covered anything but barrenness before. A yellow 

 wreath is running along a rock and festooning a tree, 

 where yesterday was only an humble unseen vine. 



