338 
RURAL HOURS. 
America is at hand. In a few days comes another and a sharper 
frost, and the whole face of the country is changed ; we enjoy, 
with wonder and dehght, a natm'al spectacle, great and beautiful, 
beyond the reach of any human means. 
We are naturally accustomed to associate the idea of verdure 
with foliage — leaves should surely be green ! But now we gaze 
in wonder as we behold colors so brilliant and so varied hung upon 
every tree. Tints that you have admired among the darker tulips 
an*d roses, the richer lilies and dahlias of the flower-garden — colors 
that have pleased your eye among the fine silks and wools of a 
lady's delicate embroidery — dyes that the shopman shows off with 
complacency among his Cashmeres and velvets — hues reserved by 
the artist for his proudest works— these we now see fluttering in 
the leaves of old oaks, and tupeloes, liquid ambers, chestnuts, 
and maples ! 
We behold the green woods becoming one mass of rich and 
varied coloring. It would seem as though Autumn, in honor of 
this high holiday, had collected together all the past glories of 
the year, adding them to her own ; she borrows the gay colors 
that have been lying during the summer months among the flow- 
ers, in the fruits, upon the plumage of the bird, on the wings of 
the butterfly, and working them together in broad and glowing 
masses, she throws them over the forest to grace her triumph. 
Like some great festival of an Italian city, where the people bring 
rich tapestries and hang them in their streets ; where they unlock 
chests of heir-looms, and bring to light brilliant draperies, wliich 
they suspend from their windoAvs and balconies, to gleam in the 
sunshine. 
The hanging woods of a mountainous country are especially 
