_Sept. 20_.--Under an old black oak, glossy and green, exhaling
aroma--amid a grove the Albic druids might have chosen--envelop'd in
the warmth and light of the noonday sun, and swarms[10] of flitting
insects--with the harsh cawing of many crows a hundred rods away--here
I sit in solitude, absorbing, enjoying all. The corn, stack'd in its
cone-shaped stacks, russet-color'd and sere--a large field spotted thick
with scarlet-gold pumpkins--an adjoining one of cabbages, showing
well in their green and pearl, mottled by much light and shade--melon
patches, with their bulging ovals, and great silver-streak'd, ruffled,
broad-edged leaves--and many an autumn sight and sound beside--the
distant scream of a flock of guinea-hens--and pour'd over all the
September breeze, with pensive cadence through the tree tops.
_Another Day_.--The ground in all directions strew'd with _débris_ from
a storm. Timber creek, as I slowly pace its banks, has ebb'd low, and
shows reaction from the turbulent swell of the late equinoctial. As I
look around, I take account of stock--weeds and shrubs, knolls, paths,
occasional stumps, some with smooth'd tops, (several I use as seats
of rest, from place to place, and from one I am now jotting these
lines,)--frequent wild-flowers, little white, star-shaped things, or the
cardinal red of the lobelia, or the cherry-ball seeds of the perennial
rose, or the many-threaded vines winding up and around trunks of trees.
_Oct. 1, 2 and 3_.--Down every day in the solitude of the creek. A
serene autumn sun and westerly breeze to-day (3d) as I sit here, the
water surface prettily moving in wind-ripples before me. On a stout old
beech at the edge, decayed and slanting, almost fallen to the stream,
yet with life and leaves in its mossy limbs, a gray squirrel, exploring,
runs up and down, flirts his tail, leaps to the ground, sits on his
haunches upright as he sees me, (a Darwinian hint?) and then races up
the tree again.
_Oct. 4_.--Cloudy and coolish; signs of incipient winter. Yet pleasant
here, the leaves thick-falling, the ground brown with them already; rich
coloring, yellows of all hues, pale and dark-green, shades from lightest
to richest red--all set in and toned down by the prevailing brown of
the earth and gray of the sky. So, winter is coming; and I yet in my
sickness. I sit here amid all these fair sights and vital influences,
and abandon myself to that thought, with its wandering trains of
speculation.
Note:
[10] There is a tulip poplar within sight of Woodstown, which is twenty
feet around, three feet from the ground, four feet across about eighteen
feet up the trunk, which is broken off about three or four feet higher
up. On the south side an arm has shot out from which rise two stems,
each to about ninety-one or ninety-two feet from the ground. Twenty-five
(or more) years since the cavity in the butt was large enough for,
and nine men at one time, ate dinner therein. It is supposed twelve to
fifteen men could now, at one time, stand within its trunk. The severe
winds of 1877 and 1878 did not seem to damage it, and the two stems send
out yearly many blossoms, scenting the air immediately about it with
their sweet perfume. It is entirely unprotected by other trees, on a
hill.--_Woodstown, N. J., "Register," April 15, '79_.