Now the rural tasks, in measure, 

 Have become a sort of pleasure, 



To get in the splendid harvest have the husbandmen begun ; 

 While the timid quail goes creeping- 

 Through the wavy rows of reaping, 



Or among the fragrant rowan, where the mower's task is done; 

 Oft we hear a loud, sweet whistle 

 From the stone-wall, edged with thistle, — 



'Tis a warning from the sentry, as we near the feeding broods, — 

 In our mouths our hearts seem beating, 

 When, with sudden flight, retreating, 



They, from under foot, go whirring through some recess in the woods. 



And the birds that used to meet us 



On our rambles, and to greet us, 

 With their joyful songs of welcome, from the boughs our heads above, 



Have unwonted shyness taken, 



Their familiar fields forsaken, 

 And no longer are rejoicing in the heyday of their love. 



Now and then we hear one fluting, 



Where the winter-green is fruiting, 

 But he does not seem contented with his sad and broken strain, — 



For his comrades, uninspiring, 



And his restless mate, retiring, — 

 Busy with the cares of journey, — only twitter and complain. 



Our attention is diverted 



To the flower-haunts deserted, 

 Where now brightly colored berries meet the eye on every side, — 



Where the jay and catbird clinging 



To the jeweled branches — swinging — 

 With their plunder merry-making, all the day are occupied, 



Day by day, as woods grow stiller, 



Locusts louder sing and shriller, 

 Till the very air seems throbbing with their little hissing tunes; 



Insects everywhere before us, 



With their fairy harps in chorus, 

 Conjugal ditties chirp while rejoicing in their honeymoons. 



Soon will cease this joyous humming, 



For the bitter frost is coming; 

 In the foliage around us we can mark his footsteps now, — 



Where, among the oak and sallow, 



Interspersed are leaves of yellow, 

 Like the silver threads that mingle with the brown on manhood's brow. 



And the west wind's early greeting 



Tells us how the time is fleeting, — 

 That October is upon us, and the birds have southward flown; 



That September's charm is over, 



While, in solitude, the rover, 

 For the lovely things departed, is left weeping and alone. 



— George Leslie Hutchinson. 



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