y tree, idle as a languid brook. It is summer’s ripen and richness fulfilled.
Some of the rarest days of the year come in the September season—days when it is comfortably cool but pulsing with life, when the sky is clear and clean, the air crisp, the wind free of dust. Meadows still smell of hay and the sweetness of cut grass. September flowers are less varied than those of May but so abundant that they make September another flowery month. Goldenrod comes by mid-August, but rises to a peak of golden abundance inearly September. Late thistles make spectacular purple accents. And asters“blossom everywhere, along the rcadsides, in meadows, on the hilltops, even in city lots, ranging in color from pure whitethrough all degrees of lavender to the royal New England purpie.”
We think of spring as the miracle time, when opening bud and new leaf proclaim the persistence of life. But September is when the abiding wonder makes itself known in a subtler way. Now growth comes to annual fruition, and preparations are completed for another year, another generation. The acorn “ripens and the hickory nut matures. The plant commits its future to the seed and the root. The insect stows tomorrow in the egg and the pupa. The surge is almost over and lire begins to relax.