16 SOME AUTUMN DAYS IN IOWA 
Down the slope is a wondrous commingling of 
colors, which is mirrored in the far and sunny side 
of the river, carmine and crimson, russet and rose, 
brown and bronze, gold and green and gray. 
The glory of the oaks is at its height. In the pure 
warm sunlight of the afternoon the red oak ( Quer - 
cus rubra) and fhe scarlet oak (Quercus coccinea) 
glow like living crimson, the effect heightened by 
the green leaves of the white oak (Quercus alba) 
standing side by side with them and slower to yield 
to the dying year. Even the brilliance of the su¬ 
mac is forgotten in this more majestic splendor 
of the oaks. Nearby the crimson is vivid, intense, 
thrilling. Across the valley and far up the bluffs 
it softens until it meets the sky-line in an indescrib¬ 
able beauty of rose-red and purple. 
We see the beauty of the crimson oaks as 
Arthur’s knights saw the vision of the Holy Grail: 
“Blessed are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale, 
For these have seen according to their sight.” 
The sounds of the year are dying, like the 
flowers and the leaves. The whirr and wheeze 
of the myriads of katydids and crickets which 
buzzed so incessantly in late August and early Sep¬ 
tember is reduced to a monotone. The noise was 
