and, rather than borrow of his neighbors, he pulled on his cap and
started for the village store.

October had brought warm weather, and this afternoon, as he went along
the maple-bordered road that leads to the post office he found himself
dawdling over the dusty grasses and bushes, recognizing old friends and
making new ones, as right-minded folks will when the sun is warm and the
birds sing beside the way. He watched a tiny chipmunk scamper along the
top of the stone wall and disappear in the branches of a maple, looked
upward and saw a mass of fluffy white clouds going northward, and
thought wistfully of spring and the delights it promised here in the
Hudson Valley. The golden-rod had passed its prime, though here and
there a yellow torch yet lighted the shadowed tangles of shrub and vine
beneath the wall, but the asters still bloomed on, and it was while
bending over a clump of them that Joel heard the whir of wheels on the
smooth road and turned to see a bicyclist speeding toward him from the
direction of the academy.

When the rider drew near, Joel recognized Stephen Remsen, and he
withdrew toward the wall, that the Coach might have the benefit of the
level footpath and avoid the ruts. But instead of speeding by, Remsen
slowed down a few feet distant and jumped from his wheel.

"Hello, March!" was his greeting as he came up to that youth. "Are you
studying botany?" Joel explained that he had been only trying to
identify the aster, a spray of which he had broken off and still held
in his hand.

"Perhaps I can tell you what it is," answered Remsen as he took it.
"Yes, it's the Purple-Stemmed, _Aster puniceus_. Isn't it common where