252 DAYS OUT OF DOORS. 



blaze, and said to Uncle Natty, " Your fire's so old it'll 

 breed salamanders." 

 • The row that morning between these men the reader 

 can imagine. For myself, I love old furniture, old ways, 

 and to revel in thoughts of old times, but am duly thank- 

 ful lucifer matches were invented when they were. 



There have been several nipping frosts already, and 

 now the cold gray sky threatens rain. Under the oaks 

 there is naught but gloomy silence — 



" The very birds are mute, 

 Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer 

 The leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near." 



And well they may, for soon the shortening days will 

 bring a northern blast that shall strip bare the trees ; the 

 winding woodpath will be hidden, and the moss-grown 

 roots — great wooden serpents, harshly kinked and curled 

 — will be lost; the scattered birds'-nests in the leafless 

 thicket stand out in melancholy array, a deserted village. 

 A new world is open now to the rambler ; but let him 

 take heed lest his thoughts be of what has been and not 

 of what is. It is a too common error. 



There are many compensations for the want of leaves. 

 The showy dogwood that this year blossomed before the 

 snow-banks of the great March storm had melted, offers 

 berries of the brightest crimson in their place. The fruit- 

 laden alder glows as a cloud of fire ; but turning from these 

 last brilliant gifts of the dying jear, let us take up a hum- 

 bler theme. I love to gather acorns. I learned to love them 

 many a year ago, when, daftly transforming them into cups 

 and saucers, I dealt out tea to others, fun-loving as myself. 

 Such retrospection is too sad to be courted now, but 

 every acorn that I gather summons a picture that but 

 slowly fades. 



