6 THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



plumes and parachutes that go floating and flying 

 and ballooning. 



" Over the fields where the daisies grow, 

 Over the flushing clover, 

 A host of the tiniest fairies go — 

 Dancing, balancing to and fro, 

 Rolling and tumbling over. 



" Quivering, balancing, drifting by, 

 Floating in sun and shadow — 

 Maybe the souls of the flowers that die 

 Wander, like this, to the summer sky 

 Over a happy meadow." 



So they do. They wander away to the sky, but 

 they come down again to the meadow to make it 

 happy next summer with new flowers ; for these are 

 the seed-souls of thistles and daisies and fall dande- 

 lions seeking new bodies for themselves in the warm 

 soil of Mother Earth. 



Mother Earth ! How tender and warm and abund- 

 ant she is! As I lie here under the oak, a child in 

 her arms, I see the thistle-down go floating by, and 

 on the same laggard breeze comes up from the maple 

 swamp the odor of the sweet pepper-bush. A little 

 flock of chickadees stop in the white birches and 

 quiz me. "Who are you?" "Who are you-you- 

 you?" they ask, dropping down closer and closer to 

 get a peek into my face. 



Perhaps they don't know who I am. Perhaps I 

 don't know who they are. They are not fish hawks, 

 of course ; but neither am I an alligator or a pump- 



