beside the brooks and in the marshes it flames forth, a splendid beacon of the wayfarer's quest. The snake-head yet blooms in the marsh, and there the fringed gentian should be frequent. The late botrychiums are now in trim among the ferns, things lightly passed over, often never seen, but adding a little beauty of frond to the many beauties of earth, in the midst of the grasses and lingering second growth clovers in the moist meadow. We hear the autumn bemoaned as a season of death, and indeed superficially it is such a season. But how superficially! For the truth is to any one who observes Nature and sees things sanely, the autumn is the season of promise. What hath been shall be, and the flowers that fade, the leaves that fall, are but forms of life that have fulfilled their functions, and pass life on to another year. So is it with our own human tenure. Its purpose is filled and its end has come. What, then, is this death that men fear, and which seems to our poor race the end of all? to the transient show, the pause in the eternal progress. What is not essential is stripped off, and that which remains is the core and inner truth of life. That goes on endlessly; and human souls that have breathed the breath of that inner life go on as endlessly. No one else has so It is but the period put superbly expressed the true office of death as Sir Walter Raleigh: "O eloquent, just and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words— Hic Jacet!" T After a Dry Summer HERE are heats stored up in the dying moon of September, but there is that in the breeze which is the sole property of our fall,—a frank acceptance of the doom of flowers and fruit and herb and tree, a wild free feeling of joyous farewell. The line storm has broken the long drouth, and at least the surface of earth has been rejoiced, refreshed and restored to its old values in some measure. The surface only as yet, for the springs are scarcely reached, and the big trout brooks of the mountains do not fill with their accustomed currents. It must have been a tragic season for the finny population of the brooks, and trout will be scarce next year in many a familiar current from the mountain springs. We are now able to discern the terrible effect of the dry summer, for when the forests should be showing glorious colour they are brown and sere. It is common speech that the hues of autumn are dying splendours, but in truth they are ripenings; like the flowers of the gardens and the roadsides, the trees too bloom in one triumphant burst of noble colour, to delight the earth and the children of earth. This fall is seen veritable death in the decay,—the leaves, abandoning life when they should be emphasizing it in gold and red and crimson, hang on the trees without a tinge of pride or sentiment,-barren and desert of life. WIND OF THE EAST Trouble the trees, Wind of the East! Stir up the seas,— Churn them to yeast, Wind that blows over the brine! Strong is thy voice, Rough is thy breath, Ships are thy toys,— Thou bearest death Thou bearest life like wine! Haste with thy train Of tumultuous cloud; Haste with the rain From the skies overbowed, Lowering and longing to pour For the forest athirst |