CHAPTER XII. 

 AN OCTOBER DIARY. 



October 1. — The first bit of color to be seen, as I 

 entered the woods at sunrise, were the purple asters, 

 that, like a fallen sunset cloud, lay tangled among the 

 dwai-fed bushes by the wayside. The beginning of 

 October, this, and it should be cool and snappy, and 

 marked by a thread of hoar-frost on the topmost rails 

 of the worm-fences — some of this should be, yet it is 

 all wanting. Asters clustered in nooks along the hill- 

 side road and offered the only contrast to the dingy 

 green of this fifth week of the drought. 



A little later, however, I chanced upon a thrifty 

 growth of crimson poison ivy reaching to the very top 

 of the tall sassafras, a tree over sixty feet in height. 

 This was, indeed, a wealth of rich color that could not 

 fail to charm the rambler. Why is it that this vino 

 has such a predilection for these trees? I find it pre- 

 fers them, not only in the woods, but along the creek, 

 where but few of the trees are growing. In the course 

 of my morning's walk I found twenty -seven vines 

 growing upon trees, and all but six were wrapped about 

 the stately stems of the sassafras. Does this hold good 

 elsewhere ? 



It is a whim to gather a walking-stick at the out 

 set, and leave it at the garden -gate on my return. 



