420 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
[October, 
A Farewell to the Woods. 
BT AGNES CARE. 
The summer is almost at an end. Bright, enchanting 
summer! that has brought us so many happy days, and 
Jed us so gaily over mountain and stream, by the ‘"sad sea 
waves,” or through the shady forest—Nature’s grandest 
Cathedral—where high arches of interlacing boughs, 
such as no mortal man could construct, meet above our 
heads, here and there giving us glimpses of the heavenly 
blue dome beyond, while thou¬ 
sands of sweet-voiced bird chor¬ 
isters chant the Creator’s praise 
in every leafy aisle, where beds 
of softest moss, in cool reces¬ 
ses, gently woo us to summer 
dreams. On hill and dale, 
throughout the land, the little 
city folks have gladly joined 
hands with their country cous¬ 
ins, who in their turn were de¬ 
lighted to show them where the 
berries grew largest and thick¬ 
est, where the cutest bird’s nest 
was snugly hidden away among 
the leaves, and where the most 
fish would rise to the tempting 
bait. Summer holidays are ever 
halcyon days, but now the 
genial-faced sun is growing 
lazy, it is later, and later every 
morning when he parts the rosy 
curtains, and comes creeping up 
above the horizon, and earlier 
and earlier every evening when 
he dons his cloudy night cap, 
and bids us “ good night, and 
pleasant dreams.” There is a 
slight chill too in the air, which 
betokens the approach of icy- 
breathed winter ; a golden mist 
adds a new beauty to the land¬ 
scape, and we say: “ Indian 
summer is smoking his calumet 
of peace,” and September has 
rung the school-house bell, 
which ends vacation, and sum¬ 
mons unwilling boys and girls 
from their sport and play, back 
to tasks and books, with, we 
hope, a bountiful stock of 
health and good spirits. Every 
boat and train may now be seen 
ladened with these sun-burned 
little wanderers, hastening 
home to city walls, casting back 
half envious glances at the bare¬ 
footed lads, and rosy-cheeked 
country lasses, who flock round 
the depots to bid them fare¬ 
well. And now the question 
for us to ask ourselves is, “ How 
much drift-wood have we gath- 
ered for the winter fire ? ” You 
all know how the little squirrel 
“ improves the shining hours,” 
by laying up a store of nuts and 
acorns for the cold days, and 
many a poor family depends 
upon the dry brush, and stray 
bits of water-soaked wood, col¬ 
lected through the warm 
weather, to keep them from 
freezing during the long biting 
winter, and we, I trust, have a hoard of pleasant 
memories, if nothing more, to refresh us, when the 
world is bound in ice and snow. The birds have flown 
to sunnier climes, and we gather round the cheerful 
fire-side, and recall our summer joys and pleasures. 
But the memory is apt to be treacherous, and I would 
suggest that a journal or diary kept during vacation, 
would be very useful in bringing back to your mind, this 
gay picnic, or that pleasant sail upon the dancing 
water, besides inspiring both your writing and composi¬ 
tion. Then we have seen a “ Summer Souvenir Book,” 
which is a nice memento to preserve. For this, at each 
place visited, you should gather leaves or flowers, and, if 
possible, procure a view or sketch of the spot. The 
leaves and flowers must be pressed, and together with 
the picture, neatly pasted in a scrap book, while below 
you can write the date, and the names of the persons 
who were present on the occasion or excursion. Those 
at the seashore, will find sea mosses carefully mounted 
on cards, and tiny shells suitable for these books. 
Ferns, autumn leaves, and dried grasses, you all have 
probably used to decorate your homes, but the prettiest 
winter bouquets can be made from the milk-weed pods, 
when fully ripe, by separating the silky fibre, passing 
lightly through yourlips, and tying small even bunches of 
it, quite near the end. They will open into flowers some¬ 
what resembling tuberoses, and when mounted on wire 
stems, and mixed with ferns, are extremely pretty. 
Pleasant friendships are often formed in our summer 
homes, when we are thrown so intimately together, and 
are to a certain degree dependent upon one another 
for enjoyment, and of all, this kind of drift-wood is 
probably the best worth collecting. And children, re¬ 
member. good nature, and kind acts, are the magnets 
that draw all hearts, and keep the fire burning, when the 
winter of life comes on. 
But before we say “good-bye,” and turn our faces 
homeward, I would invite all our young friends to 
go with golden-haired Elsie, and me, for a farewell walk 
in the autumn woods. How the dry leaves rustle be¬ 
neath our feet! Elsie delights to wade through them 
ankle deep. They form a perfect carpet now', but before 
long, old Mother Nature will pack them down in her 
underground closets, just as your mamma puts away 
your cast-off clothing, forw'hen spring comes again, the 
trees will disdain these sombre hues, and will demand 
bright new green dresses. But look up, and see how 
gorgeous these forest beauties are now ! Surely Solomon 
himself could never have worn more glorious apparel! 
The artist, Jack Frost, has been this way, and painted 
these marvellous colors of crimson, and gold, and brows. 
He is the same saucy sprite, who in a few months will 
draw beautiful etchings upon your window panes, when 
you are sound asleep. “The trees look as though they 
were di essed for a ball,” remarks Elsie, “ So they do, but 
it is a sad beauty, for these brilliant hues show that the 
blood or sap in their veins is slowly drying up, and 
after a while these leaves will be as wrinkled and brown, 
as these beneath our feet.” The wind sighs half mourn¬ 
fully in the branches, and the stillness of the wood is 
broken by the dropping of the nuts. Elsie has gath¬ 
ered into her already well filled basket glossy chestnuts, 
three-cornered beech nuts, like little cocked hats, and 
the acorns that she calls “cups and saucers.” 
Her hat blows off in the excitement of the hunf, the 
breezes play with her yellow locks, and her eyes sparkle 
gleefully. A queer chattering noise sounds above our 
heads, we look up, and spy a sociable little chipmunk 
seated low on a tree, and 
bolding a nut between his tiny 
front paws, which he is eating 
greedily. “ Oh ! you dear cun¬ 
ning little fellow ! ” cries Elsie, 
“did yon think we were going 
to carry off all your winter 
food ? ” The squirrel winks, 
and waves his feathery tail, but 
does not attempt to run away ; 
and I stand back to see 
and admire the pretty picture. 
“ There,” continues Elsie, 
“ I will leave you a feast; ” and 
she scatters a generous handful 
of nuts at the foot of the oak- 
tree. “ Good-bye, Mr. Chip¬ 
munk, for I am going to leave 
you soon, give my love to Mrs. 
Chipmunk, and the bright-eyed 
little babies ; ” and with a mer¬ 
ry laugh at her own conceit, 
Elsie danced off down the path. 
The poor frost-bitten wild 
flowers look like ghosts of their 
former selves, but a few sprays 
of golden-rod, and some modest 
little plants,still hold their own. 
“ What do you suppose those 
ugly weeds were made for?” 
asks Elsie.—“For delightful 
summer residences I don’t 
doubt.” — “Houses, do you 
mean? Why! who lives in 
them ? ” And the blue eyes gaz¬ 
ing into mine, are large and 
round with surprise.—“Lady- 
bug, little Miss Midget, and 
hundreds of their intimate 
friends. Poor things! Jack 
Frost will catch them, too, be¬ 
fore long; but don’t you know 
what one of our own poets has 
written— 
“ There’s never a leaf or blade, 
too mean 
To be some happy creature’s 
palace.”— 
“I always think of that 
when I see those mites flit¬ 
ting in and out.”—“I hope 
they have had as lovely a sum¬ 
mer as I have,” says Elsie, put¬ 
ting down her ear to hear the 
soft hum of the insects. The 
shadows begin to lengthen, and 
warn us to retrace our steps; so 
we strike into a new path, and 
follow it some distance, when 
Elsie suddenly exclaims, “Do 
you see those ‘ babes in the 
woods,’ over there ? ” 
I look, and behold a doleful 
little pair seated on a low 
branch, while, to complete the scene, a number of birds 
flutter about them, in search of the crumbs of bread 
they have scattered there. “ They are the “ How¬ 
ard twins,” Elsie informs me, “ Jeannette and Jeanot,” 
and as we approach, they greet us with a mournful 
smile. — “ What is the matter? ” I ask.—“We are going 
home to-morrow ; ” groans Jeanot, and are feeding our 
birdies for the last time.”—Jeannette’s pretty eyes are 
full of tears, but she says quite cheerfully, “ never mind 
brother ; may be we will come again next year, and the 
birdies will be so glad to see us.”—Happy little heart! 
that can thus look on the bright side ! and it is a sweet 
memory we shall carry away of these plaintive babes in 
the woods. 
The trees become thinner, we are near the edge of the 
forest, and our autumn walk is at an end. Elsie draws 
a heartfelt sigh, and softly hums, “ Home, Sweet Home,” 
and I cast a last, long, lingering look backward, into the 
green depths of the wood, where the voice of the wind 
in the tree-tops, and the song of the insects in their 
flower cradles, form a sad refrain, that seems to say, 
“The summer is over, and winter is at hand. Farewell! 
farewell! ” 
