SEPTEMBER. 
Go to the silent Autumn woods ! 
There has gone forth a spirit stern ; 
Its wing has waved in triumph here, 
The Spring’s green, tender leaf is sere, 
And withering hangs the summer fern. 
Mary Howitt. 
^^’ARVEST Home ! What joy these words 
i 
ex¬ 
press ! The harvest, commenced last month, is 
IP nearly completed. What a picturesque scene is 
the harvest field : the yellow corn, the reaper with his 
sickle, the binders tying the golden sheaves, the glean¬ 
ers following; old women, young maidens, and little 
children, in dress of every tint of colour, form a picture 
that delights the heart of the artist. And now kis 
evening. The last load of corn is on its way to the 
stack-yard, followed by a motley group of merry rus¬ 
tics. They are about to enjoy their harvest-home sup¬ 
per, and a merry dance by the brilliant light of the 
