America is at hand. In a few days comes another and a sharper frost, and the whole face of the country is changed; we enjoy, with wonder and delight, a natural spectacle, great and beautiful, beyond the reach of any human means.
We are naturally accustomed to associate the idea of verdure with foliage—leaves should surely be green! But now we gaze in wonder as we behold colors so brilliant and so varied hung upon every tree. Tints that you have admired among the darker tulips and roses, the richer lilies and dahlias of the flower-garden—colors that have pleased your eye among the fine silks and wools of a lady's delicate embroidery—dyes that the shopman shows off with complacency among his Cashmeres and velvets—hues reserved by the artist for his proudest works—these we now see fluttering in the leaves of old oaks, and tupeloes, liquid ambers, chestnuts, and maples!
We behold the green woods becoming one mass of rich and varied coloring. It would seem as though Autumn, in honor of this high holiday, had collected together all the past glories of the year, adding them to her own; she borrows the gay colors that have been lying during the summer months among the flowers, in the fruits, upon the plumage of the bird, on the wings of the butterfly, and working them together in broad and glowing masses, she throws them over the forest to grace her triumph. Like some great festival of an Italian city, where the people bring rich tapestries and hang them in their streets; where they unlock chests of heir-looms, and bring to light brilliant draperies, which they suspend from their windows and balconies, to gleam in the sunshine.
The hanging woods of a mountainous country are especially
