UPLAND SHOOTING. 
263 
AUTUMN SHOOTING. 
It is brilliant Autumn time, the most brilliant time of all, 
When the gorgeous woods are gleaming ere the leaves begin to fall; 
When the maple boughs are crimson, and the hickory shines like goal, 
When the noons are sultry hot, and the nights are frosty cold; 
When the country has no green but the sword-grass by the rill, 
And the willows in the valley, and the pine upon the hill; 
When the pippin leaves the bough, and the sumach's fruit is red, 
And the Quail is piping loud from the buckwheat where he fed; 
When the sky is blue as steel, and the river clear as glass, 
When the mist is on the mountain, and the network on the grass; 
When the harvests all are housed and the farmer’s work is done, 
And the woodland is resounding with the spaniels and the gun; 
UCH is the season of the sports¬ 
man’s adoration; to him, the lover 
of boon nature in her loveliest 
mood, these days are not, as Mr. 
Bryant in his beautiful poem has 
described them, to him at least, 
“the melancholy days,” “ the sad¬ 
dest of the year,” nor, with all 
deference to that sweet bard and 
moralist of the woods and waters, 
can I agree with him as to the tone of sentiment and feeling exci¬ 
ted by the contemplation of the scenery of an American autumn. 
It is true that we know ourselves to be looking upon, as it 
were, a hectic loveliness, which, like the glow on the cheek of 
consumptive beauty, is the precursor of decay and death. Still, 
so exquisite is that beauty, so delicious the temperature, the 
atmosphere, the aspect of the skies; so gorgeous the hues of 
forest-mantled mountain and deep woodland, that to me the 
