SEPTEMBER. 215 



It boldly sings what politeness forbids us even to whis- 

 per. 



The first frost has come ; dare autumn leaves be nien- 

 tioned ? I have seen a striking picture of an irate editor 

 flooring the twentieth spring poet that had that day called 

 upon him. Should I not take warning? At least, I 

 should not venture far. Whether or not the frost act- 

 ually ripens the leaves, it can not be gainsaid that the 

 change of color begins at this time or earlier ; but often, 

 excepting one or two trees, a year passes with no change 

 save somber brown. Always, however, there are tiny areas 

 of the brightest tints, a change more beautiful than the 

 general reddening of the forest. A branch of a maple 

 turned to dusty gold, a solitary gum tree clothed in scar- 

 let, a winding creeper bronzed to the very tips — such bits 

 as these, rare as gems along the pebbly shore, are com- 

 monly held to be the fruits of the first frost, and loved 

 the more because of their rarity. 



Those faithful friends of the poets, asters and golden- 

 rods, convenient blooms that have done duty in literature 

 for a solid century, flourish, it is true, before the coming 

 of the frost, but renew their youth in the reinvigorated 

 air. It is not they alone, however, that brighten the dusty 

 highways and deck the winding wood-lanes ; at least, not 

 here. The dittany empurples the leaf -strewed forest ; with 

 mosses and sweet fern, it carpets the upland woods ; and 

 then, with the first frost, comes the chincapin — a pygmy, 

 but still a very prince among our nuts, graciously evolved 

 for impatient autumn-lovers. To gather them is only a 

 foretaste of the nutting season proper, "it is true, but a 

 foretaste often with a keener flavor than the feast that 

 follows offers. Chincapins are the last gift of summer — a 

 gift that comes with gladness ; solid nuggets of sunshine 

 — not wrapped in dead leaves and sodden with the tears 

 of melancholy November. 



