In the fall, the battles of the spring are fought over again, beginning at the other or little end of the series.  There is the same advance and retreat, with many feints and alarms, between the contending forces, that was witnessed in April and May.  The spring comes like a tide running against a strong wind; it is ever beaten back, but ever gaining ground, with now and then a mad “push upon the land” as if to overcome its antagonist at one blow.  The cold from the north encroaches upon us in about the same fashion.  In September or early in October it usually makes a big stride forward and blackens all the more delicate plants, and hastens the “mortal ripening” of the foliage of the trees, but it is presently beaten back again, and the genial warmth repossesses the land.  Before long, however, the cold returns to the charge with augmented forces and gains much ground.

The course of the seasons never does run smooth, owing to the unequal distribution of land and water, mountain, wood, and plain.

An equilibrium, however, is usually reached in our climate in October, sometimes the most marked in November, forming the delicious Indian summer; a truce is declared, and both forces, heat and cold, meet and mingle in friendly converse on the field.  In the earlier season, this poise of the temperature, this slack-water in nature, comes in May and June; but the October calm is most marked.  Day after day, and sometimes week after week, you cannot tell which way the current is setting.  Indeed, there is no current, but the season seems to drift a little this way or a little that, just as the breeze happens to freshen a little in one quarter or the other.  The fall of ’74 was the most remarkable in this respect I remember ever to have seen.  The equilibrium of the season lasted from the middle of October till near December, with scarcely a break.  There were six weeks of Indian summer, all gold by day, and, when the moon came, all silver by night.  The river was so smooth at times as to be almost invisible, and in its place was the indefinite continuation of the opposite shore down toward the nether world.  One seemed to be in an enchanted land, and to breathe all day the atmosphere of fable and romance.  Not a smoke, but a kind of shining nimbus filled all the spaces.  The vessels would drift by as if in mid-air with all their sails set.  The gypsy blood in one, as Lowell calls it, could hardly stay between four walls and see such days go by.  Living in tents, in groves and on the hills, seemed the only natural life.

Late in December we had glimpses of the same weather,—­the earth had not yet passed all the golden isles.  On the 27th of that month, I find I made this entry in my note-book:  “A soft, hazy day, the year asleep and dreaming of the Indian summer again.  Not a breath of air and not a ripple on the river.  The sunshine is hot as it falls across my table.”

But what a terrible winter followed! what a savage chief the fair Indian maiden gave birth to!