NOVEMBER. 271 



withering maize, and other fading crops of the harvest, 

 which are wafted on the gales, as they traverse over the 

 fertile farms. It is difficult to describe a perfume ; yet 

 every one who is familiar with nature, might easily, by 

 the fragrance of the atmosphere alone, determine the 

 month of the year. Though the sweetness of summer 

 is gone, there is a perfume on the breeze that tells of 

 the gathered harvest, and speaks of plenteousness for the 

 time to come. 



A comparative silence now prevails in the woods, so 

 lately vocal with melody. The birds that long since 

 discontinued their songs, have forsaken our territories, 

 and are neither to be heard nor seen. The grasshoppers 

 have hung their harps upon the brown sedges, and 

 they themselves are buried in a torpid sleep. The 

 butterffies also have perished with the flowers, and the 

 whole tribe of sportive insects, that enlivened the pros- 

 pect with their rapid motions, have gone from our sight. 

 Few sounds are heard on still days, save the dropping 

 of nuts, the rustling of leaves, and the careering of the 

 occasional fitful breezes that spring up amidst the gen- 

 eral calm. Beautiful sights and sounds have vanished 

 together, and the rambler who goes out to greet the 

 cheerful objects of nature, finds himself alone, com- 

 muning only with silence and decay. It is on the 

 pleasant days of November, that we most fully realize 

 how much of the. pleasure of a rural excursion is de- 

 rived from the melodies, that greet our ears during the 

 vocal season of the year. Since the merrymaking 

 tenants of the grove have left them to silence and soli- 

 tude, nature seems divested of a portion of life and 

 personality. While apart from all sounds of rejoicing 

 and animation, we seem to be in the presence of friends, 

 who are silent with mourning over some dismal bereave- 



