270 DAYS OUT OF DOORS. 



become brightly hued late in the summei' ; and these were 

 dull and withered. 



Bat autumn leaves have another than their natural 

 history — ^like autumn sunshine they have merits that 

 concern the rambler, who cares not a fig for their botani- 

 cal significance — what may be called their sentimental 

 history. Concerning this it behooves me not to speak. 

 Many have essayed to record autumn's full suggestive- 

 ness, and succeeded admirably. For myself, I never wade 

 through the dead leaves that litter the paths in the woods 

 without thinking of the past. Their rustling, like the 

 •monotonous creak of the mole cricket, is, I know not 

 why, associated with days so far happier than the present 

 that I am sobered by the sounds. To-day I rested full 

 length on a bed of autumn leaves, but happily had no 

 gloomy thoughts. The birds were abundant, and they, 

 too, appear to love to send them flying hither and yon. 

 Thrushes and sprightly chewinks that the few frosts have 

 not frightened, scratched among them to their hearts' de- 

 light, and chirped so merrily one might call it song. And 

 the chipmunks scurried over the leaf -hidden ground, and 

 then stopping suddenly, barked at one another, until the 

 little wood resounded with their squeaky voices. The 

 crested tit and Carolina wrens sang lustily, the jays 

 scolded, and many native sparrows sang as though it were 

 May, and not November. There was nothing gloomy in 

 that little wood, and I started homeward at peace with 

 my own thoughts — started almost joyously, but the leaves 

 creaked ominously as I trod them under foot. That 

 sound suggested nothing but the dead past. 



But yesterday it seemed that I wandered beneath 

 these same leaves, thankful for the pleasant shade they 

 cast. What though the air was filled with that dreamy 

 haze that makes an Indian summer of the day? Save 

 in these woods Nature seemed daintly dusted with old 



