She saw fall come to Boston. The elms grew yellow and early relinquished their leaves, as if, thought Lanice, they were proud of their shapely trunks and limbs and so put on a clothing of leaves late in the spring and laid them aside early in the fall. Unlike the oak, which clings to its rough coating of leaves as long as possible, the elms have no ugly twists or growths to cover.
Ladies of fashion, for such there were in Boston, although Lanice never saw them either in the offices of Redcliffe & Fox nor at Pauline's meetings and institutes, swept up the leaves that fell upon the Great Mall and the Little Mall with their fine, full skirts. That year their dresses were the colors of autumn leaves—burnt orange, dull crimson, russet, and a bright, light green, the shade of the winter rye which Lanice knew in country places was rising fiercely out of the ground. The beautiful Paisley shawls, which they carried more than actually wore, were also of the colors of the dying year. That fall the hoops were enormous, and if two met in a doorway, one must stand back, and there was started an agitation requiring the horse-car companies to enlarge the entrances and exits of their vehicles. Now and then in Philadelphia or New York, and sometimes nearer
