XXVIII 



THE RACCOON 



Summer is past its height. The song- 

 less bobolink has forsaken the shorn 

 meadow. Grain fields, save the battal- 

 ioned maize, have fallen from gracefulness 

 and beauty of bending heads and ripple 

 of mimic waves to bristling acres of 

 stubble. From the thriftless borders of 

 ripening weeds busy flocks of yellow- 

 birds in faded plumage scatter in sud- 

 den flight at one's approach like upblown 

 flurries of dun leaves. Goldenrod gilds 

 the fence-corners, asters shine in the 

 dewy borders of the woods, sole surviv- 

 ors of the floral world save the persist- 

 ent bloom of the wild carrot and suc- 

 cory — flourishing as if there had never 

 been mower or reaper — and the white 

 blossoms of the buckwheat crowning the 

 filling kernels. The fervid days have 

 grown preceptibly shorter, the length- 

 ening nights have a chilly autumnal 

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