OCTOBER 



BRADFORD TORREY, 1843. 



The ash her purple drops forgivingly 

 And sadly, breaking not the general hush ; 

 The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea, 

 Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush ; 



All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting 



blaze 



Of bushes low, as when, on cloudy days, 

 Ere the rain fall, the cautious farmer burns bis 

 brush. 



LOWELL: An Indian-Summer Reverie. 



IO 



Some white oak acorns in the path by a wood- 

 side I found to be unexpectedly sweet and pal- 

 atable, the bitterness being scarcely perceptible. 

 To my taste they are quite as good as chestnuts. 

 No wonder the first men lived on acorns. Such as 

 these are no mean food, as they are represented 

 to be. Their sweetness is like the sweetness of 

 bread. The whole world is sweeter to me for 

 having discovered such palatableness in this neg- 

 lected nut. I am related again to the first men. 

 What can be handsomer, wear better to the eye, 

 than the color of the acorn, like the leaves on 

 which it falls, polished or varnished. 



THOREAU: Autumn. 



