The chirp of crickets and the hum of bees
Come faintly up from marsh and meadow-land,
Where reeds and rushes whisper in the breeze,
And sunbeams slant between the moss-grown trees,
Green on the grass and golden in the sand.
From many a tree whose tangled boughs are bare
Lean the rich clusters of the clambering vine ;
October’s mellow hazes dim the air
Upon the uplands, and the valley where
The distant steeples of the village shine.
Adown the brook the dead leaves whirling go ;
Above the brook the scarlet sumacs burn ;
The lonely heron sounds his note of woe
In gloomy forest-swamps where rankly grow
The crimson cardinal and feathery fern.
Autumn is sad : a cold, blue horizon
Darkly encircles checkered fields and farms,
Where late the gold of ripening harvests shone :
But bearded grain and fragrant hay are gone,
And autumn moans the loss of summer’s charms.
Yet, though our summers change and pass away,
Though dies the beauty of the hill and plain,
Though warmth and color fade with every day,
Our hearts shall change not, for hope seems to say
That all our dearest joys shall come again.
—George Arnold.
Bob White.
(Imitate the cry of the quail in each verse.)
Look! the valleys are thick with grain
Heavy and tall;
Peaches drop in the grassy lane
By the orchard wall;
Apples, streaked with a crimson stain,
Bask in the sunshine, warm and bright:
Hark to the quail that pipes for rain—
Bob White! Bob White!
Augur of mischief, pipes for rain—
Bob White!
