place— under leaves, up trees, in cellars, every- 

 where we turn. Eings of oreads dance for us 

 upon the lawns, goblins clamber over the rotting 

 stumps, and dryads start from the hollow trees 

 to spy as we pass along. 



Brick-top is in its prime throughout October 

 —when, in the dearth of other interests, we need 

 it most. By this time there are few of the birds 

 and flowers left, though the woods are far from 

 destitute of sound and color. The chickadees 

 were never friendlier ; and when, since last au- 

 tumn, have so many flocks of goldfinches glit- 

 tered along our paths? Some of the late asters 

 and goldenrods are still in bloom, and here and 

 there a lagging joepye-weed, a hoary head of 

 boneset, and a brilliant tuft of ironweed show 

 above the stretches of brown. 



October is not the month of flowers, even if it 

 does claim the witch-hazel for its own. It is the 

 month of mushrooms. There is something un- 

 natural and uncanny about the witch-hazel, 

 blossoming with sear leaf and limbs half bare. 

 I never come upon it without a start. The 

 sedges are dead, the maples leafless, the robins 

 gone, the muskrats starting their winter lodges ; 

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