cunning, all your knack of keeping on the invisible side of the trunk, or your frolic will end in sudden blackness. This is autumn, the sickly season for squirrels and birds. "The law is off," and the gun is loaded to kill you. Take a friend's advice, and fight shy of everything that walks upright "in the image of God."
Yonder round-topped sweet-birch tree is one of October's masterpieces; a sheaf of yellow leaves with the sun on them. How they shine! Yet it is not so much they as the sunlight. Nay, it is both. Let the leaves have the honor that belongs to them. In a week they will all be under foot. To-day they are bright as the sun, and airy and frolicsome as so many butterflies. Blessed are my eyes that see them. And look! how the light (what a painter it is!) glorifies the lower trunk of the white oak just beyond. The furrowed gray bark is so perfect a piece of absolute beauty that, if it were framed and set up in a gallery, the crowd—or the few that are better than a crowd—would be always before it. So cheap and universal are visual delights, so little dependent upon
