IT'S SEPTEMBER

It's September, and the orchards are afire with

red and gold,

And the nights with dew are heavy, and the

morning's sharp with cold;

Now the garden's at its gayest with the salvia

blazing red

And the good old-fashioned asters laughing

at us from their bed;

Once again in shoes and stockings are the children's

little feet,

And the dog now does his snoozing on the

bright side of the street.

It's September, and the cornstalks are as high

as they will go,

And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere

begin to show;

Now the supper's scarcely over ere the darkness

settles down

And the moon looms big and yellow at the

edges of the town;

Oh, it's good to see the children, when their

little prayers are said,

Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they

tumble into bed.

It's September, and a calmness and a sweetness

seem to fall

Over everything that's living, just as though it

hears the call

Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack

of ice and snow,

In the distance over yonder, and it somehow

seems as though

Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very

best

When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops

away to rest.

It's September! It's the fullness and the ripeness

of the year;

All the work of earth is finished, or the final

tasks are near,

But there is no doleful wailing; every living

thing that grows,

For the end that is approaching wears the

finest garb it knows.

And I pray that I may proudly hold my head

up high and smile

When I come to my September in the golden

afterwhile.

{62}