September has come. The fierce heat of summer is gone. Men are at work in the fields cutting down the yellow grain, and binding it up into sheaves. The fields of corn stand in thick ranks, heavy with ears. The boughs of the orchard hang low with the red and golden fruit. Laughing boys are picking up the purple plums and the red-cheeked peaches that have fallen in the high grass. Large, rich melons are on the garden vines, and sweet grapes hang in clusters by the wall. The larks with their black and yellow breasts stand watching you on the close-mown meadow. As you come near, they spring up, fly a little distance, and light again. The robins, that long ago left the gardens, feed in flocks upon the red berries of the sumac, and the soft-eyed pigeons are with them to claim their share. The lazy blackbirds follow the cows and pick up crickets and other insects. At noon, the air is still, mild, and soft. You see blue smoke off by the distant wood and hills. The brook is almost dry. The water runs over the pebbles with a soft, low murmur. The goldenrod is on the hill, the aster by the brook, and the sunflower in the garden. The twitter of the birds is still heard. The sheep graze upon the brown hillside. The merry whistle of the plowboy comes up from the field, and the cow lows in the distant pasture. As the sun sinks in the October haze, the low, south wind creeps over the dry tree-tops, and the leaves fall in showers upon the ground. The sun sinks lower, and lower, and is gone; but his bright beams still linger in the west. Then the evening star is seen shining with a soft, mellow light, and the moon rises slowly in the still and hazy air. November comes. The flowers are all dead. The grass is pale and white. The wind has blown the dry leaves into heaps. The timid rabbit treads softly on the dry leaves. The crow calls from the high tree-top. The sound of dropping nuts is heard in the wood. Children go out morning and evening to gather nuts for the winter. The busy little squirrels will be sure to get their share. SELECTION XIV THE RETORT One day, a rich man, flushed with pride and wine, Sitting with guests at table, all quite merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," said he, "by what art, craft, or trade Did your good father earn his livelihood?" "He was a saddler, sir," the young man said; "And in his line was always reckoned good." "A saddler, eh? and had you stuffed with Greek, Instead of teaching you like him to sew? And pray, sir, why did not your father make A saddler, too, of you?" At this each flatterer, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length the secretary, bowing low, Said (craving pardon if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave I fain would know Your father's trade."