The Birds’ Calendar 
fruition of spring’s thrilling promises. Spring 
is the buoyant morn ; autumn, the evening hour 
of a fair summer’s day, when level sunbeams 
here and there sift through the trees, and gild 
some lower branch ; silence begins her nightly 
reign, and dewy coolness fills the air. And 
autumn is better than summer, too; for one 
reason, among others, because more positive : 
it is culmination, not transition. Its individu- 
ality is complete. It begins and ends its own 
story, whereas summer is a sort of second vol- 
ume of spring, the sequel of a tale that is grow- 
ing a little prolix. 
To be sure, it is ebb-tide, but we have at 
least passed the dull equipoise of summer, and 
there is more exhilaration in going, even if 
going to destruction, than in tamely standing 
still, A mid-summer landscape burns in an 
unvaried, noon-tide glare; while florid au- 
tumn’s chiaroscuro is incomparable. The ver- 
tical sun casts no shadows, and summer must be 
painted lightly : in water-colors, rather than in 
oils. The declining sun makes deep contrasts 
of light and shade, and with its ripened tints 
of landscape autumn must be painted richly 
and heavily. Summer is strong in crops, weak 
in poetry. Perhaps she is the most practical 
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