2i6 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



In my town it is rare and any year I may find it 

 for the last time. On many counts I would not 

 miss it, and yet that faint, refined odor which 

 somehow always reminds me of ghosts of mi- 

 gnonette, of tender, almost forgotten memories 

 once more stirred, gives a gentle melancholy to 

 the woodland that all the glories of October will 

 not be able to assuage. 



It is by such subtle hints as this that autumn 

 announces her presence among us. The prevail- 

 ing tone of the upland wood is yet that of sum- 

 mer. Hardly will you see a splash of color in all 

 the miles of green. It is in shady woods where 

 no frost has yet penetrated, spots like that in 

 which the coral-root is sheltered and befriended 

 that nevertheless you read the open tale of what 

 is to come. In low-lying open meadows the frost 

 has spoken. In these on one night the chill of 

 frozen space weighed down and turned the dew 

 to ice and wrecked some tender herbage, leaving 

 it brown as if touched by fire instead of frost. 

 But it is only here and there in places peculiarly 

 subject to this warning that this has happened. 

 In shielding forest depths the coverlets of mul- 



