The woods are brilliant in the sunshine. There is still a vein of green, however, running through the forest, independently of the pines and firs.
In our stroll this evening we saw several flocks of birds, waterfowl and other smaller birds, moving steadily to the southward. These flocks give much interest to the autumn sky; they are often seen now, but are not common at other seasons—unless, indeed, it be in picture-books, where every landscape is provided with a nondescript flock of its own, quite as a matter of course. Through the spring and summer, the birds live with us, in our own atmosphere, among our own groves and plants, every-day companions; but at this season they soar above us, and we look up at the little creatures with a sort of respect, as we behold the wonderful powers with which they are endowed, sailing in the heavens, over hill and dale, flood and town, toward lands which we may never hope to see.
Saturday, 7th.—Charming weather. The woods on the hills are glorious in the sunshine, the golden light playing about their leafy crests, as though it took pleasure in kindling such rich coloring. The red of the oaks grows deeper, the chestnuts are of a brighter gold color. Still a touch of green in the woods; the foliage of the beech struggles a long time to preserve its verdure, the brownish yellow creeps over it very slowly; most trees turn more rapidly, as though they took pleasure in the change.
Butterflies fluttering about in the sunshine; dragon-flies also, “la demoiselle dorée,” as the French call them—strange, that what is a young lady in France should become a dragon across the Channel! Many grasshoppers by the road-sides. Small gnat-like flies abound, in flocks,
