AFIELD IN OCTOBER 
“The Summer’s throbbing chant is done 
And mute the choral antiphon; 
The birds have left the shivering pines 
To flit among the trellised vines, 
Or fan the air with scented plumes 
Amid the love-sick orange blooms, 
And thou art here alone,—alone, 
Sing little bird; the rest have flown.” 
O. IV. Holmes. 
I KNOW of nothing more fascinating or exhilarating, than 
a stroll through some quiet woods on a beautiful, crisp 
October morning. With a couple of younger brother bird- 
enthusiasts and armed with field glasses and note books, we 
started out early, one October morning, for a densely-wooded 
hill just south of town. In half an hour we were well away from 
the city’s glamour and noise, and inhaling th$ pure au¬ 
tumnal air. • -c 
- 
^ b£,— 
All about us was evidence of Jack Frost’s/belligerent 
(a*! /, y 1 
efforts. The fields, a month before green, and fragrant and full 
c? • 
of birds, were now withered and sure proof of the wonderful 
evolution of Nature. Here and there clumps of purple New 
t 
<3 
V3 
England asters asserted their rights to live their short existence, 
tS 
while slender golden rods nodded to the October winds. The 
[ 111 ] 
8 * 
T ;TT; ;• .v. ' 
< 1 , 
. ,1,1 uw twJ 1 
■! '/,\V ■ . 'r,A- 
