THE 



NATURE-STUDY REVIEW 



Vol. 12 October, 1916 No. 7 



October 



L. H. Bailey 



On the hills the leaves are glowing 



The summer greens have passed to red and orange 



The October haze is on the fields 



The sky is near 



The sun lies deep and mellow in the trees 



The winds have died and gone 



The streams are still. — 



The year is ripe. 



I see the pageant along the countryside stretching away and away 



to paradise 

 There are queens and kings in purple and gold 

 There are strong good folk in green and buff and brown 

 There are vivid children in red and pink and yellow 

 There are miles of billows that roll their splendors over the hills 

 There are shadowy roads that lead far into the burning distances. — 

 My eyes are drunk with color. 



Yellow and fiery-red are the maples 



Red and morocco-red are the oaks 



Nut-brown are the beeches 



Golden-yellow are the gray-barked poplars 



Straw-yellow are the grasses, and brown and sere are the weeds. — 



Each kind has its color. 



There are colors of the maple in the meadow and other colors of the 

 maple on the hill 



The oak one side my doorway is maroon-red and other side is veiny- 

 yellow; and they have been the same in all the Octobers in 

 which I have loved them. — 



Each plant has its color. 



Over the fields and in the swales I wander. 

 I push through the deep rustling leaves 



Smell the weedy odor of the Indian summer 



See the patches of sunlight drop through the shedding woodlands 



Hear the solitary calling of the crow 



Catch the last southward note of the bluebird 



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