September 20 Autumn

. . . there is a harmony

In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,

Which through the summer is not heard or seen,

As if it could not be, as if it had not been.

So wrote Percy Bysshe Shelley. "Harmony" and "lustre" are true of autumn. But I also see it as an exciting time of year. Another powerful adjective to associate with autumn is "glorious." "sensational" and "incredible" go well with it also. For surely woods, aflame with colors that make description difficult, and hills and valleys spread afar like an oriental rug, can hardly be depressing.

Oh, I know where the sadness concept comes from: the dying year, the early twilights, the passing of the fullness of summer, and all that. The last leaf clinging to the moldering wall brings long thoughts tinged with melancholy.

But enough of that. Let’s wander, on a late September day or one in crisp October, down a quiet country road in New England or New York or Ohio or Pennsylvania or wherever we can smell autumn. The aroma of burning leaves perfumes the air. Perhaps they contribute something to that "haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high." Yes, indeed, as W. H. Carruth says, some of us call it autumn, but others call it God.

Hand in hand, down a winding country road with all this indescribable beauty all about and, at every turn, deep thoughts of home and memories of old days—this is the mystic gift of autumn.

Indian summer it is sometimes called in America, for in bygone years it was said that the haze lingering over the landscape was caused by the tires from the Indian wigwams and tepees. The Indians who peopled the country are long gone, but the old-time autumn haze endures. Could it be that the spirits of the warriors once again come trooping over storied hills and along river valleys famed in song and story in autumn time? Who knows?

Many an America, immersed in history and lore, can sense them in the gathering dusk of an October evening, As long as our country endures, the Indian tribes will surely come riding out of the past, down the silvery moon spread of autumn. So it is the mystic time, the romantic interval, the long dream time laced with history still with us, that is called the fall of the year.

And with it comes the music of the falling leaves. Silently they float downward, red, yellow, russet, piling up in windrows until one walks through them ankle deep. Strange about that sound. We became acquainted with it as childhood toddlers. But, at eighty years and beyond, it sounds exactly as it did on long-vanished October days—the rustling of the leaves.

The katydids, who dolefully warned us on September nights that summer was ended and fall had come, are silent now. The nights are still. The big, round harvest moon rides high. The air is cool and crisp. Inside the snug house, the fire bums brightly on the hearth. Apples and walnuts are ready at hand; cider is poured from the jug. It’s autumn, it’s October, it’s America, it’s home. There is nothing quite like it in all the world, an American autumn.