woods in October, they can have but faint idea of its beauty. It is just
like some vast cathedral--aisle upon aisle opening before one, columned
and gorgeous beyond description, in infinite variety of tint, shaded from
blood-red to pink, from orange to tawny yellow, from golden russet-brown
to more delicate wood-colors.

Under foot is a tesselated floor, mosaiced with the same gorgeous colors.
From every quarter is wafted herby odors. Here and there one comes to
trees whose leaves are all a vivid glowing crimson. You can't imagine any
thing more beautiful when the light shines through them. Through openings
in the columned aisles one sees fields steeped in golden glamour, where
float feathery tufts of down. There also linger a few late golden-rods,
and butterflies with limbs chilled by the crisp air.

Later on those same meadows are enveloped morn and eve in veils of
floating white mist; the golden-rod is gone; the butterflies lie in their
shroud; but grape-vines are loaded with rich purple clusters, ripened by
the frost. The beautiful persimmon trees glow with luscious fruit.
Roberta's mother used to gather the persimmon apples and pack them away in
glass jars, in alternate layers of fruit and sugar. They are as nice as
dates. Wherever you turn the ground is covered with nuts--hickories,
walnuts, and chestnuts. You can hear them "drop" every few seconds.
Sometimes I think our Kentucky woods were made for children.

That afternoon I am going to tell you about, when the forks of the road
were reached, Squire lifted the children down, cautioning them against
lingering too late, mounted his wagon and was about starting when there
appeared a little ahead two horsemen riding abreast and coming directly
toward the children. They were dressed in gray, and sat their horses with
the air of "Charlie has come to his own again," softly singing snatches of