AN AUTUMNAL DAY-DREAM, 



"Bob-white!" and "bob-white!" in a 

 major key — then after an interval, an 

 answering "bob-white !" in the minor. It 

 is hard to be altogether self-satisfied 

 when we hear that clear whistle. It 

 savors so of the autumn sportsman, 

 breaking the happy coveys to evince his 

 marksmanship and tickle his barbarian 

 palate. 



Indian summer! — how, at any other 

 season, we love to ponder over those 

 dreamy, misty, mellow days ! In ravish- 

 ing languor one may once more recline 

 on the prostrate leaves and look over the 

 rich autumnal landscapes ! Despite this 

 yearning for the impossible, Nature never 

 allows herself to become monotonous: 

 wearied by winters immaculary, the eye 

 loves to dwell on the gay light greens of 

 spring; wearied of these, the somberness 

 of summer is readily acceptable ; when 

 this has held its long sway, nothing could 

 be better appreciated than autumn's blaze 

 of color. 



Which color predominates, red, yel- 

 low, brown, or blue? It is difficult to 

 decide ; the oaks and beeches and many 

 other trees are brown; the tulips and 

 maples, golden yellow- ; the shrub-like 

 sumacs, with their intense scarlet, set all 

 the roadsides ablaze, while the Virginia 

 creeper leaves its bloody trail in the 

 woods ; in the fields and wood-borders 

 the purplish-blue of the asters and gen- 

 tians strive for dominion over the yellow 

 of banked sunflowers and massed golden- 

 rod. 



The harmonious whole of these, with 

 the balmy air, and the intense cool blue of 

 the sky, and the comparative silence of 

 Nature, creates an irresistible desire that 

 we cannot withstand, to remain and sur- 

 render ourselves to the witchery of the 

 hour. How soon will all this be changed ! 



"The next that sweeps from the north" 

 tears the loose, sear leaves from the 

 branches and carpets the ground. Bril- 

 liant colors fade to browns and neutral 

 tints. Finally, a fitful breeze whirls down 

 the road, accompanied by a regiment of 

 noisy leaves, halts, wheels, and colliding 

 with the clattering crowd, whirls them 

 round and round with ever-increasing 

 force until they ascend spirally. This 

 gyration over, they fall rapidly and are 

 at rest — for the time being — many feet 

 from where they started. They are help- 

 less creatures of circumstance, and these 

 October winds show no mercy. 



Some of our trees are almost bare. But 

 many leaves retain their grip as if reluc- 

 tant to leave the sharer of their joys and 

 sorrows, and face the unknown world. 

 They are contented to rest beside some 

 thankful Christmas fern, but are fright- 

 ened at the chance of a half-mile undig- 

 nified clatter along the dry road, termi- 

 nating in a trampling-out of existence. 

 Who says the leaves have no life ? 



Our thoughts pass on. The trees are 

 bare, and the noisy — not merry — crack- 

 ling of leaves trampled under foot dis- 

 turbs the solitude of the deserted wood. 

 The first snow of the year is falling — 

 great, soft flakes that leave no impres- 

 sion on the warm earth and are seen only 

 in their passage through the air. They 

 fall thicker and faster until a cold 

 November wind suddenly rushes through 

 the trees and drives the flurry aslant, 

 wrath,ful that the earth should thus 

 receive her flaky heralds. 



"Bob-white !" the clear, bold whistle 

 whose source is so mysterious, breaks in 

 upon these unpleasant thoughts. Philo- 

 sophically, we resolve to enjoy these 

 superb days, regardless of those that will 

 follow. 



XORMAN O. FOERSTER. 



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