The November sun invites me, And although the chill wind smites me, I will wander to the woodland Where the laden trees await; And with loud and joyful singing I will set the forest ringing, As if I were king of Autumn, And Dame Nature were my mate,-- While the squirrel in his gambols Fearless round about me ambles, As if he were bent on showing In my kingdom he'd a share; While my warm blood leaps and dashes, And my eye with freedom flashes, As my soul drinks deep and deeper Of the magic in the air. There's a pleasure found in nutting, All life's cares and griefs outshutting, That is fuller far and better Than what prouder sports impart. Who could help a carol trilling As he sees the baskets filling? Why, the flow of song keeps running O'er the high walls of the heart. So when I am home returning, When the sun is lowly burning, I will once more wake the echoes With a happy song of praise,-- For the golden sunlight blessing, And the breezes' soft caressing, And the precious boon of living In the sweet November days. LOVE'S PICTURES Like the blush upon the rose When the wooing south wind speaks, Kissing soft its petals, Are thy cheeks. Tender, soft, beseeching, true, Like the stars that deck the skies Through the ether sparkling, Are thine eyes. Like the song of happy birds, When the woods with spring rejoice, In their blithe awak'ning, Is thy voice. Like soft threads of clustered silk O'er thy face so pure and fair, Sweet in its profusion, Is thy hair. Like a fair but fragile vase, Triumph of the carver's art, Graceful formed and slender,-- Thus thou art. Ah, thy cheek, thine eyes, thy voice, And thy hair's delightful wave Make me, I'll confess it, Thy poor slave! THE OLD HOMESTEAD 'Tis an old deserted homestead On the outskirts of the town, Where the roof is all moss-covered, And the walls are tumbling down; But around that little cottage Do my brightest mem'ries cling, For 'twas there I spent the moments Of my youth,--life's happy spring. I remember how I used to Swing upon the old front gate, While the robin in the tree tops Sung a night song to his mate; And how later in the evening, As the beaux were wont to do, Mr. Perkins, in the parlor, Sat and sparked my sister Sue. There my mother--heaven bless her!-- Kissed or spanked as was our need, And by smile or stroke implanted In our hearts fair virtue's seed; While my father, man of wisdom, Lawyer keen, and farmer stout, Argued long with neighbor Dobbins How the corn crops would turn out.