NOVEMBER 



21 



With startling suddenness out of the monotony 

 of lifeless color in an eddying flurry of dead leaves, 

 fanned to erratic flight by his wing-beats, the 

 ruffed grouse bursts into view, in full flight with 

 the first strokes of his thundering pinions, and 

 you have a brief vision of untamed nature as it 

 was in the old days. 



ROBINSON: In New England Fields and Woods. 



In the afternoon I met Flood, who endeavored to 

 draw my attention to a flock of geese in the miz- 

 zling air, but encountering me he lost sight of 

 them, while I at length, looking that way, discovr 



ered them, though he could not. 



THOKKAU: Autumn. 



22 



Birds generally wear the russet dress of nature 

 at this season. They have their fall, no less than 

 the plants. The bright tints depart from their 

 foliage or feathers, and they flit past like withered 

 leaves in rustling flocks. The sparrow is a with- 

 ered leaf. Perchance I heard the last cricket of 

 the season yesterday, they chirp here and there 

 at longer and longer intervals till the snow 

 quenches their song, and the last striped squir- 

 rel, too, perchance, yesterday. They then do not 

 go into winter quarters till the ground is covered 



with snow. 



THOKEAU: Autumn. 



