By the time we ascend the banks, thread the labyrinth of “Bates’” logging, and regain the road, the harvest-moon has risen. Snow white in the pearly twilight, she soon will deepen into gold, and then change into deep silver. Behold she changes even now, and the twilight deepens, and now the broad and magnificent moonlight reigns. Ah, how glorious! ah, how beautiful! A silver day is smiling, more soft, more delicate, more radiantly pure than the “garish” one that just went glittering out through the rosy portals of the west. The near forests and the distant hills are all suffused, and mingled, and melted into a sweet romantic picture of bewitching beauty. Back we retrace our path through the jeweled woods, and now, scenting the odor of the clover-grass, we diverge from our road into the deep cool verdure of the meadow. No danger of dampening the dainty delicate feet of our girls either, for there has been no rain for a month, and the earth is as dry as powder. So we wade through the swaying verdure, and enjoy the “compacted sweets” of the clover odors. Thence we scramble over a rough stone-wall, the girls giving pretty screams, and holding up their petti—I beg pardon, drapery, so as to jump more readily, and enter a corn-field. The rich soil loosened by the hoe crumbles at our tread, and the plumy stalks shake above our heads, almost excluding the moonlight. Mercy, what round thing is that I stumbled over just then! not a skull I hope, although corn-fields before now have sprung above church-yards and battle-fields. Who knows but this field now rustles above some “Indian burial-place” or frontier battle-ground. However, this can’t be a skull, for my foot has just “squashed” into another, and—why it is only a pumpkin. Confound the long vines too, how they trip one up. What on earth is the reason that they can’t plant corn-fields without putting pumpkins in also? They only serve to trip up the girls and boys who condescend of a summer’s night to enter the precincts. I fancy a young ear of corn would not be unacceptable. A young, green, succulent ear of corn. So come here you plumed chieftain, “lend me your ears,” or rather, plumed chieftain! I will take you by the ears. I will cut off your ears, plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as thou art. Yea, verily will I, plumed chieftain! so here goes. I tear off the emerald sheath and lo! the silver ear—pearly rich art thou, silver ear of the plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as he is, and I don’t think thou wilt be less rich when the red fire shall make thee tawny and fit for the teeth.