ESCAPED FROM GARDENS 



SOON after the equinox, the wild woods being ablaze 

 with ripening leaves, we go miles to the north on a 

 crooked river to spy out the shrubs that will bear trans- 

 planting within our gates. The fruits and seeds are in 

 winter dress, and the fine shapes of branches and twigs 

 are apparent. What a fine hedge of witch-hazel would 

 grow, if it would take kindly to a civilized neighborhood ! 

 Its yellow pennants flutter gayly, and its popping fruits 

 and grotesque bushes are decorations not to be despised. 



Chill weather comes early in the north woods of the 

 river country. The frost sprite was abroad the night we 

 slept before a fire of logs in the cabin. It had spun 

 threads of silver across the water buckets at the well, and 

 thrown a veil of sparkling velvet over the meadows. The 

 woodbines draping dead trees were battle flags of burn- 

 ing red, and the sumach was scarlet among weeds of 

 yellows and bronze. The witch-hazel pennants were pale 

 and frosted, hanging forlornly. 



In the hollows of the road thin ice crackled under foot, 

 wild geese were flying southward, and the squirrels chat- 

 tering of winter stores in the hickories. The gophers 

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