For anyone who lives in the oak-and-maple area of New England, there is a perennial temptation to plunge into a purple sea of adjectives about October.

He who travels west travels not only with the sun but with history.

Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.

Some people are like ants. Give them a warm day and a piece of ground and they start digging. There the similarity ends. Ants keepon digging. Most people don't. They establish contact with the soil, absorb so much vernal vigor that they can't stay in one place, and desert the fork or spade to see how the rhubarb is coming and whether the asparagus is yet in sight.

Strip the hills, drain the boglands, and you create flood conditions inevitably. Yet that is what we have been doing for years.

Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.

For the Fall of the year is more than three months bounded by an equinox and a solstice. It is a summing up without the finality of year's end.