Sweet May comes on; then "leafy June." The forest trees put on their glory now; the deep green Oak, the lighter Elm, and paler still, the Ash; the silver Poplar and the Willow gray—all green, yet each a varied hue! The Indian Pipe, that elegant specimen of Nature's wax-work, with its nodding flower and leafless stem, all white as ivory, catches the eye, here and there near the roots of old trees. The ever green Laurel and the rough-coated Dogwood are rivals now; the latter all sprinkled over with snowy flowers; the former decked with clusters just as white, but for a faint blush, which makes them lovelier.

Now the Side-saddle flower or Adam's cup rears high a temperance banner of dark purple, in the reedy swamp; for, from its root spring leafy cups, all filled with crystal water. By the shady brooks swing the little yellow pitchers which Touch-me-not hangs out, and the Winter-green lifts its delicate blossom of pink from among the dry leaves, while the little Blue-bell peeps fearlessly over the rocky cliff. The ambitious Clematis or Virgin's bower climbing to the tree-tops, hangs in rich festoons of white, her silvery plumes from bough to bough. The summer hours roll on. The insinuating Dodder, now gaily trims the trees and shrubs by brook and pond, with bright, gold, thread; all for its board too, for while it clings so lovingly, its little fibres are greedily drinking the "dear" plant's juices, up! Contemptible parasite! The fragrant Lilies of pure white appear on many a smooth pond and glassy lake; their yellow sisters, too, rise here and there from the clear wave; their large round leaves rest gently on the wa ter; all moored with living cables, green islands though they are; unpeopied, save when some hapless fly is stranded there, or a young water-snake seeks the leafy land, and coiling up, lies there to sun itself and sleep.

D

The Blue-flag waves on the point of its green, supple blade, a challenge, writ on red and blue in yellow lines, all stolen from the bow; a challenge for that haughty foreigner, the Fleur-de-lis.* These, too,are quickly gone; the scarlet Lobelia and the white Clethra,† tarry yet, fringing the brooks with mingled beauty, and the queenly Sunflower, now in "the full," rears her tall head above the rankest weeds of autumn.

These, "one by one depart," as the year's evening steals slowly on; the star-like Aster lingers longest, yet smiling faintly mid the withered grass.

"A spirit in soft music calls

From Autumn's gray and moss-grown walls,

And round her withered tree."

It

To me, this twilight of the year is her loveliest season. talks so much of the close of a well-spent life; the sabbath of the year, and full of sabbath lessons. The bright glare of the summer's sun, is softened into a mellower light; a sweetly mournful smile rests on the face of nature; her work already done, she lingers yet, like some aged man, and waits her change; waits too, IN HOPE! Yes, when dismantled of the robes of death, "the tender germ which in a case russet and rude, is folded up," the embryo plant, within its little shell, round which,

"Life's golden threads in endless circles wind,"

borne by the winds to some distant shore, or hidden in the rocky cleft, or buried in the deep vale, slumbers in hope, till spring shall call it forth, life out of death! How like a good `man full of honors and of years, "whose flesh shall rest in hope!"

Now the Ashen seed with its single, polished oar, sculls

* Generally spelled, Flower de luce, + Sweet pepper-bush.

through the sea of air, to find a home; the Maple spreads its bat-like wings, or sails, (just which you please to call them,) and scuds before the blast, seeking a refuge from the wintry storms. The Dandelion lifts its saffron disc from some humble spot; withers there, and there, "is silvered o'er with age.' A strolling boy spies it and plucks it, and rudely blowing off the uncombed locks, from the old gray head, he wanders on, piping now and then a dronish note upon the hollow stem.

The hapless flower is gone, but when you see the air filled with these strange balloons of Nature's make, a living passenger in each-now rolling lightly on the ground, and now borne up again, soaring away, across wide streams, above the forest trees, can you help thinking what hosts will turn their yellow faces up, next spring, on many a spot where Dandelion never grew before? What language have these traveling germs of life? Is it not this? "Fill your place, humble though it be; the labors of your summer hours will not be lost, but borne by men, yes, by the very winds, will influence many a mind, cause many a distant heart to bless the stranger, while you obscurely live, obscurely die; but not ignobly. Fill your place, then; do not imagine that your influence will weigh nothing in the scale of the world, but ever remember, that the good which you do, will as certainly swell the amount of human happiness, and lessen the burden of human misery, as flowers will smile and trees rise from us, little wanderers upon the wings of the wind!" Long might I tarry as seasons glide away, and catch such words as these; you can do so too, and as they pass swiftly on, let them be numbered not by signs or changing moons, but by the lessons left; then should your years be few, they'll number well!

Fall has its scenes of beauty, too, that fill the soul with beauty like their own. Who has not seen them? Go out in

the morning, while yet the frost-lace from the loom of Night, flung over turf and tree and mossy stone, gleams like silver in the soft sunlight; when veils of artful pattern, woven by that industrious old hermit, the field spider, are stretched from limb to limb, on many a tree and bush; veils inwrought with silver threads, and now and then a dewy pearl, curiously set in. Go out, when streamers of gossamer float in the still air; ́when chandeliers of crystal ice, (the newest style,)" studded with gems of purest water, are pendent from the trees, gleaming with violet, green and gold, with brilliant hues, all borrowed from the sun! When the breeze comes up, see, what a shower of pearls and light they shed! To purchase half the gems would beggar kings! This is the very gala day of Nature, who, bridemaid to the waning year, has decked her thus. Why should she not? The year will soon be married, “married unto death."

Who talks of princely pageants that has witnessed aught like this? Who boasts to you and me, of being by, when

queen Victoria donned the ponderous crown?

Had you gone out in the still hour of night, you would have heard from tree to tree, a clear ringing sound, as if the fairies fired platoons in mimic fight. Nature was casting crystals then, in molds of air!

This evening of the year has sunset glories of its own! Let him who dwells amid huge piles of brick and stone; whose walks are bounded by the city's bound; who never wandered forth when "autumn's smile beams through the yellow woods," talk of the works of art; of splendid halls, where Genius' bright creations almost live and breathe; where beetling crags start out at pencil's touch, and make you think, in spite of reason, "what if they should fall!" where cascades tumble over rocky cliffs, and dash their mimic spray,

ม

and whirl and foam, and everything but roar; of warm Italian skies that seem to breathe their own soft gales, all ́glowing on the canvas! He knows not of the gorgeous dyes of the deep forest, that Raphael could not paint. His art might dash the mimic colors on; it could not make those col. ors fade, and glow, and melt, and blend, each with its sister tinge; nor keep them changing there, through every tint and shade of colored light!

Over the old log-fence that borders on the wood, the thorny barberry's clustering corals hang. Amid the tangled wildgrass of the marsh, that crackles under foot, are strewn the bright red cranberries, all candied now with frost. Deep in the vale, the dark green cedars make a gloomy shade, and on the hills, the feathery pines are sighing in the wind. Round that old tree, whose leaning trunk is mirrored in the stream, the grape vine clings, and pendent from a limb, its summer's growth is swinging to and fro, all clad in scarlet.

By the babbiing brook, the willows wave in yellow robes, their garb of gray thrown by; the silver of the poplar has somehow got a stain. The Sumac,* too, is taking on a tinge of red to day; to-morrow 'twill be orange; the Maples shine in deepest crimson now, and now in brilliant yellow, while the kingly Oak, puts off his summer dress, for robes of deep, These are the sunset glories of the waning year. It would seem, in blending thus her splendors in one gorgeous hour, as if she vied with evening's western sky, that gathers at its verge, the pearl and gold of morning, noon's warm and yellow light, its own inimitable hues, emulous to prove that saying true, "the last, still loveliest." So will it be in life's last going down, when memory's soft but radiant

rich brown.

*Pronounced Shumak.