AUTUMN 73 
are all that Is left on the stripped and beheaded 
stalks. Throughout the mountains these absurd 
cornfields are a feature of the autumn landscape, 
lying on the slopes, covering the valley bottoms, and 
appearing without warning in the midst of an other- 
wise unbroken forest. The Northern visitor some- 
times compares them, to their disadvantage, with 
other cornfields of his acquaintance, where noble 
stacks stand in even rows, great golden pumpkins 
scattered over the ground between. But what he 
does not consider is that such a cornfield would be 
out of place here, and the golden pumpkin might 
strike a false note. Pumpkins there are, it is true, 
but they are pink, thus failing in one of the most 
important functions of a pumpkin. A pink pumpkin ! 
But It would do very well if called by some other 
name; that is, as an ornament, for you can by no 
means make good pies out of a pink pumpkin, 
"pumpkin pie" remaining the unchallenged treas- 
ure of the North. 
In course of time the ear of corn also disappears 
from the bereft stalk, it is " toted " home and husked, 
then a part is shelled and the white and wrinkled 
kernels ground into the sweetest meal In the world, 
between the slow stones of little mills that stand 
along the water-courses. If a man is successful in 
life and owns "right smart of corn-land," he will 
likely have his own mill, though It may be no larger 
than a good-sized chicken coop, with perhaps a 
wooden wheel, taller than itself, on the outside, a 
wheel that turns slowly and with dignity, the silver 
