November sits at the door of her wayside tent looking out upon the
valleys and mountain tops. She has torn from the trees their faded
banners of yellow and their worn fringes of crimson. November is an old
dame, gray-haired, somber-eyed and strong-featured. Clad in garments of
dun and dusky brown, she sits resting and smoking; and that is why we
get such smoky days toward the last of her stay.
Yes, November is an old gypsy dame, but she is not always melancholy.
She is the month of whom artists are especially fond. While she lacks
the glow of midsummer, there is compensation for the absence of bloom
and radiance in the ripening of all vegetation; there is still a touch
of splendid color on the hills, and the grass is green with the
aftermath of summer. Beautiful mists veil the mountain tops. There is an
exquisite beauty in the tints of sepia and the rich brown tones of the
landscapes and in the tender grays and clear blues of November skies.
Ah, she knows, does November, that she, too, in her old age, gives
promise of something sweet to come. All the trees are filled with next
year’s buds; the trailing things of the woods, too, are budded and wait
but a few months until the first snows are gone to blossom in fragrance
and gladden the bright wedding days of Spring.
Calmly she smokes, the dear old dame, sitting at the door of her tent.
Near by, dim and misty, are the marshy fens, in which stand the herons
like sculptured figures, where the bulrushes have turned yellow amongst
the tawny tussocks. Around her the Indian creeper weaves its still
brilliant strands of red and gold. Softly the willow bands drop their
trailing leaves. Heavy and purple still hang the berries on the elder
boughs that languidly wave in the faint breeze as if they still felt the
ghosts of summer kisses.
The nut-brown face of old November looks impassively on all the changes
of her season. She knows nothing is dying about her that shall not live
again. Her eyes, dark, liquid, somberly deep and tranquil, have seen all
the things beautiful that our eyes have missed—the wild flowers trodden
down by careless feet; moonlight on far off lakes at midnight; the first
pink flush of dawn on stately mountains. Ah, yes, she knows of Love; of
dead folded hands, and she remembers the buds of her last year’s reign.
She knows that, like the sleeping buds about her now, Love shall give
all things back again in the sweet springtime of Paradise, even as these
same buds shall waken to bloom and beauty when their winter sleep is
over.
But now the night is coming on. Deep shadows are filling the dusky
stalls of the drooping hemlocks on yonder hill. Faint spicy odors of
sweet fern and illusive witch hazel rise on the misty air. Dame November
rises slowly, knocks the ashes from her pipe, gazes broodingly for a few
moments over the fading landscape, then turns and softly closes her
door. All night the solemn winds intone the requiem of Spring and Summer
glories past, but at intervals listen and you will hear the sweet, thin
flute of the wood-frog, faintly but hopefully voicing the promise of
another Spring, with more bloom, more gladness and glory to come.
Dear old Dame November! A few more days and she will no longer be
sitting at the door of her wayside tent. We love her mists, her mellow
rains, her dull, rich tones of brown and faded gold. December shall
disturb the brooding calm that she has left with us, but we know he
cannot harm with his icy mail and glittering frost spears the tightly
folded promises which the gypsy November has prepared for next year’s
blooming.
Belle A. Hitchcock.
THE ARKANSAS GOLDFINCH.
(_Spinus psaltria_.)
The Goldfinch, social, chirping, bright,
Takes in those branches his delight.
A troop like flying sunbeams pass
And light among the vivid grass,
Or in the end of some long branch,
Like acrobats, in air they launch,
And in the wild wind sway and swing,
Intent to twitter, glance and sing.
—Rose Terry Cooke, “My Apple Tree.”
These lines of the poet were inspired by the beautiful goldfinch so
familiar to all, and usually called yellow-bird and thistle-bird. They
form an appropriate introduction to a few words regarding the
thistle-bird’s sister species of the Pacific coast—the Arkansas
Goldfinch. This bright and sprightly bird enlivens the shrubby ravines
and weedy places from Oregon southward through the United States, and
from the Pacific coast eastward into Colorado. Throughout its range it
is quite common and nests on the plains and also in the mountains to a
height of nine thousand feet. Abundant in many mountainous regions, it
has been given the name Rocky Mountain Goldfinch, and the olive-green
color of the plumage of its back has given it the very appropriate name
Arkansas Green-backed Goldfinch.
Like the common thistle-bird, it has a social disposition and feeds with
its fellows in flocks of a greater or less number. Not infrequently
several individuals will alight on the same plant and immediately begin
a diligent search for their food of seeds. Active and of a seemingly
impatient temperament, it seldom remains long in any one locality, yet a
garden rich in sunflower blossoms or a field full of blooming thistles
furnished so tempting a larder that a flock may patiently labor therein
for some time, gathering an abundance of goldfinch dainties.
Its notes are similar to those of the thistle-birds. “The ordinary note
is a plaintive mellow, whistling call, impossible to describe and so
inflected as to produce a very mournful effect.” While pursuing its
undulating flight, it utters a sweet song which is in harmony with the
rise and fall of its onward motion and is indicative of its sweet
disposition. Its nest is a dainty structure built of fine bark and other
vegetable fibers, fine grasses and moss compactly bound together and
quite thickly lined with plant down.
[Illustration: ARKANSAS GOLDFINCH.
(Spinus psaltria).
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]