A Foretaste of Autumn 51 



blossoms of fruit-trees. It is heavy, rich, 

 penetrating; a nut-like, oily, autumn odor 

 that charges the landscape ; a transporting 

 perfume that blots out the present and pic~l- 

 ures the future without its blemishes ; gives 

 us the spirit of autumn and veils its frost- 

 scarred body. The bloom of the yarrow is 

 as potent as the fruit of the fabled lotus. 



Has not the landscape changed ? It is 

 August, and the first day of it, too, and yet, 

 with yarrow blossoms in my hand, I do not 

 see so much of summer as I did. The tow- 

 ering shellbarks that like sentinels stand out 

 upon the meadows, the hill-side walnuts, the 

 wayside chestnut, and even the shy hazel- 

 bushes hidden along the wild brook's weedy 

 bank, all these must be ladened with ripened 

 fruit, I fancy. It is crisp October, with its 

 painted leaves, to-day, not August; such is 

 the magic of the yarrow bloom. 



Is it all fancy ? What I did not see before 

 is plainly set before me now. There on that 

 gnarly sour-gum tree, scattered all over it, 

 from topmost twig to its lowest trailing 

 branches, are bright crimson leaves. That 

 surely is a sign of autumn. No frost-ripened 

 foliage, later, will shine with greater glory, 



