The ash-trees grow crimson in color, and lose their summer life in great gouts of blood.  The birches touch their frail spray with yellow; the chestnuts drop down their leaves in brown, twirling showers.  The beeches, crimped with the frost, guard their foliage until each leaf whistles white in the November gales.  The bittersweet hangs its bare and leafless tendrils from rock to tree, and sways with the weight of its brazen berries.  The sturdy oaks, unyielding to the winds and to the frosts, struggle long against the approaches of the winter, and in their struggles wear faces of orange, of scarlet, of crimson, and of brown; and finally, yielding to swift winds, as youth’s pride yields to manly duty, strew the ground with the scattered glories of their summer strength, and warm and feed the earth with the debris of their leafy honors.

The maple in the lowlands turns suddenly its silvery greenness into orange scarlet, and in the coming chilliness of the autumn eventide seems to catch the glories of the sunset, and to wear them—­as a sign of God’s old promise in Egypt—­like a pillar of cloud by day, and of fire by night.

And when all these are done,—­and in the paved and noisy aisles of the city the ailantus, with all its greenness gone, lifts up its skeleton fingers to the God of Autumn and of storms,—­the dogwood still guards its crown; and the branches, which stretched their white canvas in April, now bear up a spire of bloody tongues, that lie against the leafless woods like a tree on fire!

Autumn brings to the home the cheerful glow of “first fires.”  It withdraws the thoughts from the wide and joyous landscape of summer, and fixes them upon those objects which bloom and rejoice within the household.  The old hearth, that has rioted the summer through with boughs and blossoms, gives up its withered tenantry.  The fire-dogs gleam kindly upon the evening hours; and the blaze wakens those sweet hopes and prayers which cluster around the fireside of home.

The wantoning and the riot of the season gone are softened in memory, and supply joys to the season to come,—­just as youth’s audacity and pride give a glow to the recollections of our manhood.

At mid-day the air is mild and soft; a warm, blue smoke lies in the mountain gaps; the tracery of distant woods upon the upland hangs in the haze with a dreamy gorgeousness of coloring.  The river runs low with August drought, and frets upon the pebbly bottom with a soft, low murmur, as of joyousness gone by.  The hemlocks of the river-bank rise in tapering sheens, and tell tales of Spring.

As the sun sinks, doubling his disk in the October smoke, the low south-wind creeps over the withered tree-tops, and drips the leaves upon the land.  The windows, that were wide open at noon, are closed; and a bright blaze—­to drive off the easterly dampness that promises a storm—­flashes lightly and kindly over the book-shelves and busts upon my wall.