DEVOTED TO AGRICTJIiTUIlE AND ITS KIISTDEED ARTS AND SCIENCES. 



VOL. XII. 



BOSTON, SEPTEMBER, 1860. 



NO. 9. 



?!IY,^.''^' fr.?±tl^'^lt^' PnoP.x..ous. ^,^^^ 3^^^^ ^^,^^^_ 



Office... .34 Merchants' Row, 



Fr.KD'K HOL'RROnK, ( Associate 

 HEXUY F. FKEXCli, j Ki-itoks. 



TALK ABOUT SEPTEMBEIl. 



"There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 

 It3 mellow richness on the clustered trees." 



_^^ (Q^ 



EPTEMBEPv IS, per- 

 haps, the most 

 beautiful month of 

 the twelve. It has 

 not the east Avinds 

 of spring, the in- 

 tense heat of sum- 

 mer, nor the cold 

 northerly blast of 

 later autumn. Yet 

 a shadow rests up- 

 U on its beauty, be- 

 ■^^ cause we begin to 

 see signs of decay. 

 We know that the 

 turning his back up- 

 on us, and that we must 

 soon bid farewell to the 

 verdure that has charmed us for a 

 little while. A few yellow leaves are, 

 perhaps, all the positive evidences 

 of decay yet visible, but a general sereness has 

 diminished the rich green of summer, and ban- 

 ished that freshness which will return no more 

 for many months. But then it is never wise to let 

 the storms and inclemencies that are going to he, 

 cloud the sunshine that is. 



For further consideration we have the fact 

 that summer did not depart till her work was 

 done. Her bright suns and pleasant rains gave us 

 plenty of cherries, currants, berries, &c., &c., and 

 left the premises for the months of the garnered 

 sheaves, and gathered grain — of apples, pump- 

 kins and other delightful things which glad the 

 hearts of industrious Yankees. And autumn will 

 finish the work summer laid out for her, for Na- 

 IulTC is, in the main, very reliable. She will not 

 bring us a cold, stern winter, without first supply- 

 ing us with life's comforts. Our vegetables and 



fruits shall ripen, our pigs and turkeys grow fat, 

 and then we can retire to our dens (figuratively) 

 and defy "rude Boreas" and all his train. 



The changes of the seasons are, on the whole, a 

 pleasant variety to most people. Even a perpet- • 

 ual spring would become a monotonous affair af- 

 ter a while. But how different are the voices of 

 autumn, and the voices of spring — both delight- 

 ful in their way. Already we miss many voices 

 from the full chorus that saluted us a few months 

 ago. The frog, whose voice came from every bog 

 and meadow and brook in the warm twilights of 

 April, has said his say, and retired from the 

 stump, like a sensible orator, when he has ex- 

 pressed his sentiments. Or, if we do hear him at 

 all, it is but a faint peep — he has evidently lost 

 the zeal which characterized his first efforts. The 

 robin, having seen her family through their state 

 of babyhood, has settled quietly down to a matter- 

 of-fact existence. The blackbirds, who, while 

 planning their summer's work, are perfectly tu- 

 multuous, have long since ceased to hold their 

 caucuses on every tree. The whip-poor-will is not 

 heard much after July comes in — but he can hard- 

 ly be said to belong to the full choir of which we 

 have spoken, as he only comes abroad in the 

 night when all but owls and people with unquiet 

 consciences are' sleeping. Where does he go, and 

 why does he leave so early ? 



We have spoken of the voices of spring. Now 

 what are the voices of the autumn ? They are 

 few and generally mournful. An occasional note 

 from a solitary bird, the caw of the crow as he 

 flaps lazily through the air — the tree-toad predict- 

 ing rain with more certainty than the weather- 

 vane that points East on your barn. These are 

 the sounds we hear on a quiet autumn day. The 

 chirp of the grasshopper and cricket are saying, 

 too, "Summer's gone — summer's gone !" 



Our fields and gardens, also, bear witness of 

 the same thing. Instead of the moiljst but fra- 

 grant little flowers, that came when the snow first 



