The celery rivals the turnip fair;
There's new delight in the tender steak;
And boys go munching the chestnut rare,
Without one thought of the stomach-ache.

The last of the cattle-shows is seen;
The monster squash to the cows is fed;
Everything's brown that once was green,
Except tomatoes, and they are red.

The drowsy citizen hates to rise;
The hash may be cold, but so is the air:
'Tis heaven to slumber, for now the flies
Are less affectionate, and more rare.

And who is the busiest man we see?
'Tis the Doctor, dashing by in his chaise;
And well may he hurry, you will agree,
For it isn't every patient that pays.

'Tis a rare, rare season,--so breezy and bright!
The dahlias, and even the squashes, are gay!
One wouldn't regret the cold at night,
If it wasn't so deucedly cold by day.

A wandering shiver inspires the doubt
Whether Indian Summer will come this year;
But its warmth can be felt when you don't go out,
And it's haze may be seen through a glass of beer.