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A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN

When late in summer the streams run yellow,
Burst the bridges and spread into bays;
When berries are black and peaches are mellow,
And hills are hidden by rainy haze;

When the goldenrod is golden still,

But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder; When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill, And slides o'er the path the stripèd adder.

When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket,
Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf;
When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket,
Grasshoppers' rasp, and rustle of sheaf.

When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle,

And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown; When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle,

And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone.

When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle,

And shadows are deep in the heat of the noon; When the air is white with the down o' the thistle, And the sky is red with the harvest moon;

Oh, then be chary, young Robert and Mary,
No time let slip, not a moment wait!

If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning,
And they who would wed must be done with their
mooning;

Let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle,

And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate!

RICHARD WATSON GILDER.

HARVEST SONG

Sickles sound;
On the ground

Fast the ripe ears fall;
Every maiden's bonnet
Has blue blossoms on it:
Joy is over all.

Sickles ring,

Maidens sing

To the sickle's sound; Till the moon is beaming, And the stubble gleaming;

Harvest songs go round.

All are springing, All are singing, Every lisping thing. Man and master meet, From one dish they eat; Each is now a king.

Hans and Michael
Whet the sickle,

Then stoop again to mow;
Soon each laughing maiden
With yellow sheaves is laden,
And home they go, yo ho!

HEINRICH HÖLTY.

AUTUMN FASHIONS

The Maple owned that she was tired of always wearing green.

She knew that she had grown, of late, too shabby to be seen!

The Oak and Beech and Chestnut then deplored their shabbiness,

And all, except the Hemlock sad, were wild to change their dress.

"For fashion-plate we'll take the flowers," the rustling Maple said,

"And like the Tulip I'll be clothed in splendid gold and red!"

'The cheerful Sunflower suits me best," the lightsome Beech replied;

"The Marigold my choice shall be,”—the Chestnut spoke with pride.

The sturdy Oak took time to think—“I hate such glaring hues;

The Gillyflower, so dark and rich, I for my model choose."

So every tree in all the grove, except the Hemlock sad, According to its wish erelong in brilliant dress was clad.

And here they stand through all the soft and bright October days;

They wished to look like flowers-indeed, they look like

huge bouquets!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs

the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hills the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

INDIAN SUMMER

From gold to gray

Our mild, sweet day

Of Indian summer fades too soon;

But tenderly

Above the sea

Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moor..

In its pale fire
The village spire

Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance;

The painted walls

Whereon it falls

Transfigured stand in marble trance.

JOHN GREENLEaf Whittier.

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