Nature seems to look after her own only up to a certain point; beyond that they are supposed to fend for themselves.

March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.

Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.

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.

Here and there one sees the blush of wild rose haws or the warmth of orange fruit on the bittersweet, and back in the woods is the occasional twinkle of partridgeberries. But they are the gem stones, the rare decorations which make the grays, the browns and the greens seem even more quiet, more completely at rest.

As I stood and watched the mists slowly rising this morning I wondered what view was more beautiful than this.

The hush comes with the deepening of Autumn; but it comes gradually. Our ears are attuned to it, day by quieter day. But even now, if one awakens in the deep darkness of the small hours, one can hear it, a foretaste of Winter silence. It’s a little painful now, and a little lonely because it is so strange.