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The older you grow, if you love your garden, 

 the more your taste will develop, and the more 

 you will regret not having set out a tree, shrub, or 

 perennial in the place it might occupy and adorn. 



Autumn is variously voiced by the poets, 

 more often in a minor than a major key. De- 

 spite the pomp with which she appears, her 

 crimsoning woods are but the presage of ap- 

 proaching death, when the snow shall be her 

 burial shroud and winter's winds shall chant her 

 funeral dirge. Charming she is in her mingling 

 of October sunshine and shadow ; pitiful in her 

 mournful November garb. Yet let but a burst 

 of sunlight touch the leafless trees, and she is in- 

 stantly transformed. 



In British verse autumn is usually dank and 

 sodden, bleak or shivering. The yew and the 

 holly seem to absorb the light and cast a pall 

 upon the landscape. The sugar and scarlet ma- 

 ple, the dogwood and sumac, are wanting to 

 impart their warmth of color ; and St. Martin's 

 summer somehow fails to shed a cheerful influ- 

 ence as does our Indian summer. Thus David 

 Gray : 



October's gold is dim the forests rot, 

 The weary rain falls ceaseless while the day 

 Is wrapped in damp. In mire of village way 

 The hedgerow leaves are stamped ; and, all forgot, 



