OCTOBER. 



There is something in the autumn that is native to my 

 blood — 



Touch of manner, hint of mood, — 



And my heart is like a rhyme. 



With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keep- 

 ing time. 



The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 



Of bugles going by. 



And my lonely spirit thrills 



To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 



There is something in October sets the gypsy blood 



astir. 

 We must rise and follow her. 

 When from every hill of flame 

 She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 



— Bliss Carman. 



OW that the Tanager has laid aside 

 his brilliant scarlet coat and gone 

 to his winter home and left the 

 landscape bare, gentle Autumn, 

 with colors gay, creeps quietly over 

 the wooded hills and down into 

 the sleeping valleys, slowly touching the green 

 and gray with crimson and gold, until in mid- 

 Octobqr, finding none to dispute her royal right to 

 beautify the world, she boldly flings abroad her 



