And the smaller trees, in recognition of this grape-juice time of year, had adorned themselves in red.

October, the sweetest and mellowest stanza in God Almighty's poem--the dreamy, lulling lines between hot Summer's passion and Winter's cold severity.
On the train they had been boys, but now they were men, looking at the tranquil, listening to the immortal.
"Did you speak ?" Henry asked.
"No," said Richmond, "it was October." They floated out on the lake.

Mud-hens, in their midsummer fluttering, had woven the rushes into a Gobelin tapestry.

The deep notes of the old frog were hushed, but in an out-of-the-way nook the youngster was trying his voice on the water-dog.

A dragon-fly lighted on a stake and flashed a sunbeam from his bedazzled wing; and a bright bug, like a streak of blue flame, zigzagged his way across the smooth water.
An hour passed.