The Parks. 107 



beauty's sake alone. September is indeed the harvest time ; 

 the apples falling from the trees — the fruit of the Earth 

 constantly pelting their poor old mother. 



When I compare mentally the early autumn scenes that 

 I can remember; call to mind the vivid red of the sumach 

 leaves, the dark blue lobelias, and that singing, singing, 

 that continuous song of the insects, I am impressed how 

 life for us all, is the same. That gradual change of the ages 

 does not effect the life of man more than it does the cricket 

 of this Summer, and if I had lived a thousand years ago, or 

 should walk the fields a thousand years to come, the scenes 

 would be the same. 



It is good to ramble in the autumn fields, in one of the 

 barren sandy nooks where the sweet-fern grows, and where 

 a sad pleasant flavored joy, seems to pervade all about you. 

 With dextrous throws you bring down the apples, and 

 though they may be gnarled and puny, you eat them with 

 a relish, for they seem such free gifts from nature. They 

 come without the asking or the toil, like the persimmons, 

 or the strawberries in the field. 



Autumn colors the barren ground vegetation very early 

 with the deepest dye, and as we are taller than most of the 

 plants that grow on the sand, we may look over them, and 

 thus get a wide and varied view. The Virginia creeper 

 runs flaming red along the ground, and the sumachs, 

 the cat-briers and the poison ivy vines, are most vividly 

 colored. 



Perhaps the most curious tint of all the autumnal 

 show is the greenish-white leaves of the bitter-sweet 

 vine, that are speckled with yellow. They have an odd 



