the hot August.

The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it brought
to the fields the prodigality of the golden harvest,--
to the forest, revelations of light,--and to the sky,
the sharp air, the morning mist, the red clouds at
evening. Within doors, the sense of seclusion, the
stillness of closed and curtained windows, musings by
the fireside, books, friends, conversation, and the long,
meditative evenings. To the farmer, it brought surcease
of toil,--to the scholar, that sweet delirium of
the brain which changes toil to pleasure. It brought
the wild duck back to the reedy marshes of the south;
it brought the wild song back to the fervid brain of the
poet. Without, the village street was paved with gold;
the river ran red with the reflection of the leaves.
Within, the faces of friends brightened the gloomy
walls; the returning footsteps of the long-absent
gladdened the threshold; and all the sweet amenities
of social life again resumed their interrupted reign.

The first snow came. How beautiful it was, falling
so silently, all day long, all night long, on the
mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the
living, on the graves of the dead! All white save
the river, that marked its course by a winding black
line across the landscape; and the leafless trees, that
against the leaden sky now revealed more fully the
wonderful beauty and intricacy of their branches!