The frogs were singing in full chorus, and the insect world was wide awake, humming in every field. It seemed really a shame to close one's eyes upon such a night. Indeed, there was nothing this evening of the calm, still, dreamy character of common moonlight, but rather an animating, exciting power in the fullness of light, which seemed to rival the influence of the busy day.

Saturday, 2d.–Saw a few barn-swallows about a farm-yard, some miles from the village. The chimney-swallows have not yet disappeared. The goldfinches are scouring the fields and gardens in flocks, feasting upon the ripe seeds; at this moment, they have a little chatty note, which is very pleasant, though scarcely musical; but as they all seem to be talking at once, they make a cheerful murmur about the thickets and fields.

Tuesday, 5th.–A party of chimney-swallows were seen wheeling over the highway, near the bridge, this afternoon.

Wednesday, 6th.–Delightful weather. Long walk. The Michaelmas daisies and golden-rods are blooming abundantly in the fields and woods. Both these common flowers enliven the autumn very much for us, growing freely as they do in all soils and situations, for, unlike the more delicate wild flowers of spring, they are not easily driven from the ground, growing as readily in the fields among foreign grasses as in their native woods. By their profusion, their variety, and their long duration, from midsummer to the sharpest frosts of autumn, they console us for the disappearance of the earlier flowers, which, if more beautiful, are more fragile also.

The golden-rod is a fine, showy plant in most of its numerous forms. There are said to be some ninety varieties in North America, and about a third of these belong to our own part of the continent, the middle States of the Union. Of this number, one, with a pyramidal head, has fragrant leaves. Another is common to both Europe and America; this is one of the smaller and insignificant kinds, but the only plant of the family found on both continents. Perhaps the golden-rods are not quite so luxuriant with us, as in the lower counties; the larger and more showy kinds seem more abundant in the valley of the Mohawk than upon our hills. Still, they are common enough here, lining all the fences just now. The silver-rod, or Solidago bicolor, abounds in our neighborhood; the bees are very fond of it; at this season, and even much later, you often find them harvesting the honey of this flower, three or four bees on one spike.

As for the Michaelmas daisies, they can scarcely thrive better anywhere than in our own region–common as possible in all the fields and woods. There would seem to be a greater variety among these flowers than in any other family except the grasses; botanists count some hundred and thirty American asters, and of these, about one-fourth belong to this part of the country. The difference between many of these is very slight, scarcely perceptible to the casual observer; but others, again, are very strongly marked. We all note that some are quite tall, others low; that some bear very small blossoms, others large and showy flowers; some are white, others pinkish, others grayish, those purple, these blue. Their hearts vary also in color, even upon the same plants, according to the age of the different flowers, the centre being either yellow, dark reddish purple, or pale green; and this enlivens the clusters very much. The leaves, also, are widely different in size and form. All this variety, added to their cheerful abundance, gives interest to this common flower, and makes it a favorite with those who live in the country. They remain so long in bloom, that toward the close of the season, the common sorts may all be found together. Some of the handsomer kinds, large, and of a fine purple color, delight in low, moist spots, where, early in September, they keep company, in large patches, with the great bur-marigold, making a rich contrast with those showy golden blossoms.

It is well known that both the golden-rods and asters are considered characteristic American plants, being so much more numerous on this continent than in the Old World.

Another flower, common in our woods just now, is the Bird-bell, the Nabalus of botanists. There are several varieties of these; the taller kinds are fine plants, growing to a height of four or five feet, with numerous clusters of pendulous, straw-colored bells, strung along their upper branches. If the color were more decided, this would be one of our handsomest wild flowers; its numerous blossoms are very prettily formed, and hung on the stalks with peculiar grace, but they are of a very pale shade of straw color, wanting the brilliancy of warmer coloring, or the purity of white petals. These plants are sometimes called lion's-foot, rattlesnake-root, but the name of Bird-bell is the most pleasing, and was probably given them from their flowering about the time when the birds collect in flocks, preparatory to their flight southward, as though the blossoms rung a warning chime in the woods, to draw them together. The leaves of the Bird-bell are strangely capricious in size and shape, so much so at times that one can hardly credit that they belong to the same stalk; some are small and simple in form, others are very large and capricious in their broken outline. Plants are sometimes given to caprices of this kind in their foliage, but the Bird-bell indulges in far more fancies of this sort than any other with which we are acquainted in this neighborhood.

Yellow Gerardias are in flower still in the woods, and so is the Hawk-wort. The blue Gentian is also in bloom; though not common, it is found in spots about the lake.

We gathered, this afternoon, some flowers of the partridge-berry and squaw-vine, the only spring blossoms still found in the woods. Directly in the path, as we were going up Mount Vision, we also found a large dragon's claw, or corallarhiza; its brown stalk and flowers measured about fifteen inches in height, and it was divided into eight leafless branches.

Thursday, 7th.–Cooler. Went down to the great meadow for lady's tresses, Spiranthes, which grow there plentifully. Pretty and fragrant, these flowers are not unlike an autumn lily of the valley; one is puzzled to know why they should be called lady's tresses–possibly from the spiral twist of the flowers on the stalk. They are a common American orchid, unknown in Europe. Gathered also a fine bunch of purple asters, and golden bur-marigolds; these last were slightly fragrant.

This evening we kindled our autumn fires.

Friday, 8th.–Lovely day; warm, silvery mist, gradually clearing to soft sunshine. Passed a charming morning at the Cliffs. The wych-hazel is in bloom; brown nuts and yellow flowers on the same twig. Gathered some speckled-jewels, partridge-berry, and squaw-vine blossoms. Found a purple rose-raspberry in flower; it is always pleasant to meet these late flowers, unlooked-for favors as they are. A year or two since, the wild roses on this road flowered in September, a second bloom; and the same season a number of our earlier garden roses bore flowers the second time as late as the 16th of September.

This is a land of berries; a large portion of our trees and plants yield their seed in this form. Among such are the several wild cherries and plums, the amelanchiers and the dog-woods, the mountain ash, the sumachs and the thorns; all the large bramble tribe, with their pleasant fruits, roses, raspberries, the blackberry, and the gooseberry; the numerous whortleberries and bilberries, viburnums and honeysuckles, spikenards and cohoshes; pokeweed, the trilliums, the convallarias, and the low cornel, clintonia, and medeola; the strawberry, the partridge-plant, and squaw-vine. These are all common, and very beautiful while in season. Without going at all out of our way this morning, we gathered a very handsome bunch of berries, some of a dark purple, others light, waxy green, these olive, those white, this scarlet, that ruby color, and others crimson and pale blue. The berry of the round-leaved dogwood is of a very delicate blue.

The birds were feasting upon all these berries at the Cliffs; saw quite a gathering of them in a sumach grove, robins, blue-birds, sparrows, goldfinches, cat-birds, wild-pigeons, and woodpeckers; there were several others also, perched so high that it was not easy to decide what they were. The little creatures were all very active and cheerful, but quite songless; a chirrup, or a wild call, now and then, were the only sounds heard among them.

Saturday, 9th.–Pleasant morning in the woods. Much amused by squirrels. First found a little chipmuck, or ground squirrel, sitting on a pile of freshly-cut chestnut rails, at a wild spot in the heart of the woods. The little creature saw us as we approached and took a seat not far from him; he moved quietly a few yards and then resumed his sitting position, with his face toward us, so as to watch our movements. He was holding something in his fore paws, which he was eating very busily; it was amusing to watch him taking his dinner; but we were puzzled to know what he was eating, for it was evidently no chestnut, but covered with down, which he brushed away from his face, now and then, quite angrily. For nearly ten minutes he sat there, looking toward us from time to time; but we were curious to know what he was eating, and moved toward him, when he vanished among the rails; he left a bit of his dinner, however; this proved to be the heart of a head of half-ripe thistle, in which the seed had not yet formed; it looked very much like a miniature artichoke, and he seemed to enjoy it exceedingly. Returning to our seat, he reappeared again upon the rails. Presently a beautiful red squirrel made his appearance, in the notch of a tall old pine, perhaps fifty feet from the ground; a hemlock had been uprooted, and in falling its head had locked in this very notch, its root was near the spot where we were sitting. This squirrel is very fond of the cones of the hemlock, and other firs, and perhaps he had run up the half-prostrate trunk in quest of these; at any rate, he took this road downward. He paused every few steps to utter the peculiar cry which has given then the name of chickaree, for they often repeat it, and are noisy little creatures. He came deliberately down the whole length of the trunk, chatting and waving his beautiful tail as he moved along. After leaving the tree he played about, here and there, apparently in quest of nuts, and he frequently came very near us of his own accord; once we might have struck him with ease, by stretching out our parasols. His large eyes were beautiful. This kind of squirrel eats most of our grains, wheat, rye, buckwheat. He swims quite well, and is found as far south as the mountains of Carolina. His fur is thought the best among his tribe.

Passing under a chestnut tree by the roadside, we had further occasion to observe how fearless the squirrels are in their interviews with mankind. A little fellow was cutting off chestnut burs with his teeth, that they might drop on the ground; he had already dropped perhaps a dozen bunches; after a while he came down, with another large cluster of green burs in his mouth, with these he darted off into the woods, to his nest, no doubt. But he soon came back, and taking up another large cluster from the ground, ran off again. This movement he repeated several times, without being at all disturbed, though he evidently saw us standing a few yards from him. These gray squirrels are common in every wood, and they say that one of them is capable of eating all the nuts yielded by a large tree; one of them had been known to strip a butternut tree, near a house, leaving only a very meagre gleaning for the family. These little creatures sometimes undertake the most extraordinary journeys; large flocks of them set out together upon a general migration. Some forty years since a great migration of this kind took place among the gray squirrels, in the northern part of this State, and in crossing the Hudson above Albany, very many of them were drowned.

There is another larger gray squirrel, not so common, called the fox squirrel, measuring two and a half feet in length.

The black squirrel is small, only a foot long; its fur is of a glossy jet black. We saw one this summer, but at a distance from our lake. They are nowhere very common, and are rather a northern variety, not seen south of Pennsylvania. There is a deadly feud between these and the gray squirrels, and as their enemies are the largest and the most numerous, they are invariably driven off the nutting-grounds when both meet. The two kinds are said never to remain long together in the same neighborhood.

These, with the flying squirrel, make up all the members of their family found in our State. The pretty little flying squirrels are quite small, about nine inches long. They are found here and there through this State, and indeed over the Union, and in Mexico also. They live in hollow trees, but we have never had the good luck to meet one in our rambles. They are seldom seen in the daytime, dozing away until twilight.

Monday, 11th.–Church-yards are much less common in this country than one might suppose, and to judge from the turn things are taking now, it seems probable this pious, simple custom of burying about our churches, will soon become obsolete. As it is, the good people of many rural neighborhoods must make a day's journey before they can find a country church-yard in which to read Gray's Elegy. A great proportion of the places of worship one sees here have no graves near them. In the villages they make part of the crowd of buildings with little space about them; nor does it follow that in the open country, where land is cheaper, the case is altered; you pass meeting-houses standing apart, with broad fields spreading on all sides, but no graves at hand. Some distance beyond, perhaps, you will come to a square enclosure, opening into the highway, and this is the cemetery of the congregation. Small family burying-grounds, about the fields, are very common; sometimes it is a retired spot, neatly enclosed, or it may be only a row of graves in one corner of the meadow, or orchard. Walking in the fields a while since, we were obliged to climb a stone wall, and on jumping down into the adjoining meadow, we found we had alighted on a grave; there were several others lying around near the fence, an unhewn stone at the head and foot of each humble hillock. This custom of burying on the farms had its origin, no doubt, in the peculiar circumstances of the early population, thinly scattered over a wide country, and separated by distance and bad roads from any place of public worship. In this way the custom of making the graves of a family upon the homestead gradually found favor among the people, and they learned to look upon it as a melancholy gratification to make the tombs of the departed members of a family near the dwelling of the living. The increase of the population, and the improvement of the roads on one hand, with the changes of property, and the greater number of villages on the other, are now bringing about another state of things. Public cemeteries for parishes, or whole communities, are becoming common, while the isolated burial-places about the farms are more rare than they used to be.

The few church-yards found among us are usually seen in the older parishes; places of worship, recently built, very rarely have a yard attached to them. The narrow, crowded, abandoned church-yards, still seen in the heart of our older towns, have become, in the course of time, very striking monuments to the dead. Nowhere is the stillness of the grave so deeply impressive; the feverish turmoil of the living, made up of pleasure, duty, labor, folly, sin, whirling in ceaseless movement about them, is less than the passing winds and the drops of rain to the tenants of those grounds, as they lie side by side, in crowded but unconscious company. The present, so full, so fearfully absorbing with the living, to the dead is a mystery; with those mouldering remains of man the past and the future are the great realities. The stillness, the uselessness if you will, of the old church-yard in the heart of the bustling city, renders it a more striking and impressive momento mori than the skull in the cell of a hermit.

We hear from time to time plans for changes which include the breaking up of these old church-yards in the towns. We are told that those old graves are unsightly objects; that a new square on the spot would be more agreeable to the neighborhood; that a street at this particular point would be a very convenient thoroughfare, and would make A, B, or C richer men by some thousands. Such are the motives usually urged in defence of the act; embellishment, convenience, or gain. But which of these is of sufficient force to justify the desecration of the tomb? Assuredly necessity alone can excuse the breach of equity, of decency, of good faith and good feeling involved in such a step. Man is the natural guardian of the grave; the remains of the dead are a solemn deposit entrusted to the honor of the living. In the hour of death we commend our souls into the hands of our Maker; we leave our bodies to the care of our fellow-creatures. Just so long, therefore, as each significant mound bears a trace of its solemn character, just so long should it be held sacred by the living. Shall we, in a Christian land, claim to have less of justice, less of decency and natural feeling, than the rude heathen whose place on the earth we have taken; a race who carefully watched over the burial-places of their fathers with unwavering fidelity? Shall we seek to rival the deed of the brutal wrecker who strips the corpse of the drowned man on the wild shore of the ocean when no honest arm is near? Shall we follow in the steps of the cowardly thief who prowls in the darkness about the field of battle to plunder the lifeless brave? Shall we cease to teach our children that of all covetousness, that which would spoil the helpless is the most revolting? Or, in short, shall we sell the ashes of our fathers that a little more coin may jingle in our own pockets?

It matters little that a man say he should be willing his own grave should be broken up, his own bones scattered to the winds; the dead, whom he would disturb, might tell a different tale could their crumbling skeletons rise up before him, endowed once more with speech. There was a great man who, if we may believe the very solemn words on his tomb, has spoken in this instance, as in ten thousand others, the strong, natural language of the human heart:

"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare
To dig the dust enclosed here;
Blest be he that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."

In this new state of society–in this utilitarian age–it behooves us, indeed, to be especially on our guard against any attack upon the tomb; the same spirit which to-day stands ready to break open the graves of a past generation, to-morrow, by carrying out the same principle, may deny decent burial to a brother. It may see useless expense in the shroud, waste of wood in the coffin, usurpation of soil in the narrow cell of the deceased. There is, indeed, a moral principle connected with the protection of the grave, which, if given up, must inevitably recoil upon the society by whom it has been abandoned.

The character of a place of burial, the consideration or neglect it receives, the nature of the attention bestowed on it, are all intimately connected with the state of the public mind on many important subjects. There is very little danger in this country of superstitions connected with the grave. What peril there is lies on the other side. Is there no tendency to a cold and chilling indifference upon such subjects among our people? And yet a just consideration of Death is one of the highest lessons that every man needs to learn. Christianity, with the pure wisdom of Truth, while it shields us on one hand from abject, cowardly fear, on the other hand is ever warning us alike against brutal indifference, or the confidence of blind presumption. With all the calmness of Faith, with all the lowliness of Humility, with all the tenderness of Charity, and with the undying light of heavenly Hope at her heart, the Christian Church sits watching beside the graves of her children.

The oldest tomb belonging to the good people of this little town lies within the bounds of the Episcopal Church-yard, and bears the date of 1792. It was a child who died of the small-pox. Close at hand is another stone bearing a date two years later, and marking the grave of the first adult who fell among the band of colonists, a young man drowned while bathing in the lake–infancy and youth were buried before old age. At the time these graves were dug, the spot was in a wild condition, upon the border of the forest, the wood having been only partially cut away. In a few years other members of the little community died, one after another, at intervals, and they were also buried here, until the spot had gradually taken its present character of a burying-ground. The rubbish was cleared away, place was made for those who must follow, and ere many years had passed, the brick walls of a little church rose within the enclosure, and were consecrated to the worship of the Almighty, by the venerable Bishop Moore. And thus this piece of ground was set apart for its solemn purposes, while shaded by the woods, and ere it had been appropriated to common uses; the soil was first broken by the spade of the grave-digger, and Death is the only reaper who has gathered his harvest here. The spot soon lost its forest character, however, for the older trees were all felled; possibly some among them may have been used as timber in building the little church. Happily, at the time of clearing the ground, a few young bushes were spared from the axe, and these having been left to grow at will, during the course of half a century, have become fine flourishing trees. The greater number are pines, and a more fitting tree for a Christian church-yard than the white pine of America could scarcely be named. With all the gravity and unchanging character of an evergreen, they have not the dull gloom of the cypress or the yew; their growth is noble, and more than any other variety of their tribe, they hold murmuring communion with the mysterious winds, waving in tones of subdued melancholy over the humble graves at their feet. A few maples and elms, and a fine amelanchier, appear among them, relieving their monotonous character. Some of these have been planted for that purpose, but the pines themselves are all the spontaneous growth of the soil. Judging from their size, and what we know of their history, they must have sprung up from the seed about the time when the first colonists arrived–contemporaries of the little town whose graves they overshadow.

The tombs themselves have all a natural interest for the people of the place, but there are none to attract the attention of a stranger. One of the earlier Missionaries in these parts of the country is buried here among his flock; he came into the woods a young man, passed a long life in preaching the Gospel among the different hamlets about, and died at last much respected and esteemed for his simplicity of character and faithful performance of the duties of his sacred office. One day, as he was walking through the church-yard with a brother clergyman, he pointed out a spot beneath two pines, expressing a wish to lie there, when the work of life should be over. Years after this conversation, he died in another parish, and was buried there; but he was nominal rector of this church at the time, and his friends were aware that he wished his body removed to this ground. Steps were accordingly taken, his remains were brought here, and laid in a grave selected by one of the vestry. A simple monument of white marble was raised to his memory by the different parishes he had founded in the county. Some years later, the clergyman to whom the old Missionary had pointed out the spot where he wished to be buried, happened to preach here, and passing through the church-yard, he paused to look at the monument, observing that he was pleased to find his friend had been laid in the very spot chosen by himself so long before; and it was only then the parish learned that their old rector had pointed out this same position for his grave, a vestryman having chosen it without being aware of the fact. Thus the wish of the old servant of God was unconsciously fulfilled by those who were ignorant of it.

"The dead in Christ, they rest in hope,
  And o'er their sleep sublime,
The shadow of the steeple moves,
  From morn, to vesper chime.
On every mound, in solemn shade,
  Its imaged cross doth lie,
As goes the sunlight to the west,
  Or rides the moon on high."

Tuesday, 12th.–Delightful walk. Many flocks of birds in movement, wheeling in the sunshine, or alighting upon the trees and fences. Saw a large hawk in full flight before a few king-birds–a common sight enough. Crows, also, when they meet the stout-hearted king-birds in the corn-fields, which they frequently do at this season, are sure to retreat before their spirited enemy. Even the eagle is worsted by them at times, and keeps out of their way.

The woods, generally, are green as midsummer–but a small shrub here and there is faintly touched with autumnal colors.

Wednesday, 13th.–Bright and pleasant. Slight touch of frost in the clear moonlight of last night, the first we have had this autumn. It has left no traces, and seems only to have fallen in spots; even the tomato-vines in the garden are untouched.

As we were standing on the wharf, we observed bur-marigolds growing in a spot usually covered with water the year round. The lake has been very low lately, but this particular spot can only have been out of water three or four weeks at the utmost, and here we have plants already grown up and in flower. They are annuals, I believe.

Thursday, 14th.–Rainy, cheerless day. Short walk toward evening. Saw a couple of snail-shells, in a tuft of fern, by the roadside. How much less common are these land-snails in our part of the world than in Europe; in the Old World, you find them in the fields and gardens at every turn, but here we only see one now and then, and chiefly in the woods.

Friday, 15th.–Strong wind from the south, rustling with a full, deep sough through the trees. The locusts, as their branches bend before the wind, show their pods prettily–some clusters bright yellow, others a handsome red, as they are more or less ripe. The Virginia creepers are turning cherry color; they are always the first leaves to change.

Saturday, 16th.–Pleasant, soft weather. The farmers are ploughing and sowing grain, and have been doing so for some days; they are earlier than they used to be with their autumn seed-time. The buckwheat fields are turning red, and will soon be cut. The maize-stalks are drying and withering as the ears ripen; on some farms, they are harvesting both crops–red buckwheat sheaves and withered corn-stalks are standing about the fields. All through the summer months, the maize-fields are beautiful with their long, glossy leaves; but when ripe, dry, and colorless, they will not compare with the waving lawns of other grains. The golden ears, however, after the husk has been taken off, are perhaps the noblest heads of grain in the world; the rich piles now lying about the fields are a sight to rejoice the farmer's heart.

The great pumpkins, always grown with maize, are also lying ripening in the sun; as we have had no frost yet, the vines are still green. When they are harvested and gathered in heaps, the pumpkins rival the yellow corn in richness; and a farm-wagon carrying a load of husked corn and pumpkins, bears as handsome a load of produce as the country yields. It is a precious one, too, for the farmer and his flocks.

Cattle are very fond of pumpkins; it is pleasant to see what a feast the honest creatures make of them in the barn-yard; they evidently consider them a great dainty, far superior to common provender. But in this part of the world, not only the cattle, but men, women, and children–we all eat pumpkins. Yesterday, the first pumpkin-pie of the season made its appearance on the table. It seems rather strange, at a first glance, that in a country where apples, and plums, and peaches, and cranberries abound, the pumpkin should be held in high favor for pies. But this is a taste which may probably be traced back to the early colonists; the first housewives of New England found no apples or quinces in the wilderness; but pumpkins may have been raised the first summer after they landed at Plymouth. At any rate, we know that they were soon turned to account in this way. The old Hollander, Van der Donck, in his account of the New Netherlands, published in 1656, mentions the pumpkin as being held in high favor in New Amsterdam, and adds, that the English colonists–meaning those of New England–"use it also for pastry." This is probably the first allusion to the pumpkin-pie in our annals.

Monday, 18th.–A pair of the golden-winged woodpeckers, or clapes, as many persons call them, have been on the lawn all the afternoon. These large woodpeckers often come into the village, especially in the spring and autumn, and they are frequently seen on the ground, running their bills into the grass in quest of ants and their eggs, which are favorite food with them. They are handsome birds, differing in some respects from the other woodpeckers, and peculiar to North America, although two kindred varieties of golden-winged woodpeckers are found about the Cape of Good Hope. But they have no bird in Europe at all like ours.

Tuesday, 19th.–Mild, soft weather lately; to-day, high gust, with rain. Those leaves that had at all loosened their hold, locusts and Virginia creepers, are flying before the wind. The apples, blown off, are lying under the trees, and scattered in showers over the green grass.

Saw a flock of wild pigeons; they have not been very numerous in our neighborhood lately, but every year we have a few of them. These birds will go a great distance for food, and their flight is astonishingly rapid. A pigeon of this kind is said to have been killed in New York during the rice season, with undigested Carolina rice in its crop; and as they require about twelve hours for digestion, it is supposed that the bird was only a few hours on his journey, breakfasting on the Santee, and dining on the Hudson. At this rate, it has been calculated that our passenger-pigeon might go to Europe in three days; indeed, a straggler is said to have been actually shot in Scotland. So that, whatever disputes may arise as to the rival merits of Columbus and the Northmen, it is very probable that American pigeons had discovered Europe long before the Europeans discovered them.

Thursday, 21st.–Equinox. Warm; showery as April. Sunshine, showers, and rainbows succeeding each other through the day. Beautiful effect of light on the hills; a whole mountain side on the lake shore bathed in the tints of the rainbow, the colors lying with unusual breadth on its wooded breast. Even the ethereal green of the bow was clearly seen above the darker verdure of the trees. Only the lower part of the bow, that which lay upon the mountain, was colored; above, the clouds were just tinged where they touched the brow of the hill, then fading away into pale gray.

Friday, 22d.–Mushrooms are very abundant in the meadows.

Saturday, 23d.–Lovely evening; soft and mild, windows open; the sun throwing long shadows on the bright grass of the lawn. But for a light touch of autumn here and there, we might have believed ourselves at midsummer.

Monday, 25th.–Showery again. The woods are still green, but some trees in the village are beginning to look autumn-like. And yet we have had no frost of any consequence. Though an active agent in effecting the beautiful autumnal changes in the foliage, frost does not seem indispensable; one finds that the leaves turn at a certain time, whether we have had frost or not. The single trees, or groves, and the borders of a wood, seem to be touched first, while the forest generally still preserves its verdure. The Virginia creepers, whether trained upon our walls, hanging about the trees in the woods, or tangling the thickets on the banks of the river, are always the first to show their light, vivid crimson, among the green of the other foliage. A maple here and there generally keeps them company, in scarlet and yellow.

Saw a pretty sight: a party of robins alighted on the topmost boughs of a group of young locusts near the house, and sipped up the rain-drops gathered on the leaves; it was pretty to see them drinking the delicate drops, one after another. Smaller birds joined them–sparrows, probably, and drank also. Birds often drink in this way, but one seldom sees a whole flock sipping at the same time. It is said that the fine pinnated grouse, now becoming a very rare bird in this State, drinks only in this way, refusing water from a vessel, or a spring, but eagerly drinking when it trickles down in drops.

Tuesday, 26th.–A fine bunch of woodcock, with several partridges, and a brace of wood-ducks, brought to the house.

The wood-ducks brought in this morning were both drakes, but young, and consequently they had not acquired their beautiful plumage. We had one for dinner; it was very delicate; a canvas-back could scarcely have been more so. These ducks are summer visitors to our lake. Unlike others of their family, they build nests in trees. They are said to be one of the two most beautiful species in the world, the other being the Mandarin Duck of China. Ours are chiefly confined to the fresh waters of the interior, being seldom found on the seashore. They are said frequently to build in the same tree for several seasons. Mr. Wilson gives a pleasing account of a nest he had seen on the banks of the Tuckahoe river, New Jersey: "The tree was an old grotesque white-oak, whose top had been torn off by the storm. In this hollow and broken top, and about six feet down on the soft, decayed wood, lay thirteen eggs, snugly covered with down, doubtless taken from the breast of the bird. The eggs were of the highest polish, fine in the grain, greatly resembling old polished ivory. This tree had been occupied, probably by the same pair, for four successive years in breeding-time; the person who gave me the information, and whose house was within twenty or thirty yards of the tree, said that he had seen the female, the spring preceding, carry down thirteen young, one by one, in less than ten minutes. She caught them in her bill by the wing, or by the back of the neck, and landed them safely at the foot of the tree, when she afterward led them to the water. Under this same tree, at the time I visited it, a large sloop lay on the stocks, nearly finished; the deck was not more than twelve feet distant from the nest, yet notwithstanding the presence and the noise of the workmen, the ducks would not abandon their old breeding-place, but continued to pass out and in, as if no person had been near. The male usually perched on an adjoining limb, and kept watch while the female was laying, and also often while she was sitting. A tame goose had chosen a hollow space at the root of the same tree, to lay and hatch her young in."

The feathers of these beautiful birds are said to be frequently used by the Indians to ornament their calumet, or Pipe of Peace; the head and neck of the wood-duck are frequently seen covering the stem of the pipe.

Owing to the richness of its plumage, Linnæus gave this bird the name of the Bridal Duck, Anas sponsa, and it is singular that the bird which approaches nearest to ours, the Mandarin Duck of China, figures regularly in the marriage procession of the Chinese; not, however, from its beauty, but as an emblem of conjugal fidelity, for which good quality they are remarkable. A story is told of a female in the aviary of a European gentleman at Macao, who all but starved herself to death when her husband was carried off, and would probably have died had he not been found and restored to her. The joy of both at meeting was extreme, and the husband celebrated his return by putting to death a rival drake who had been trying but in vain, to console his mourning partner. We have never heard whether our own birds are remarkable for the same good quality or not, but their returning to the same nest for years looks, at least, as if they mated for life.

Wednesday, 27th.–Decided white frost last night. The trees show it perceptibly in a heightened tint of coloring, rising here and there; some single maples in the village streets are vividly crimson. But the general tint is still green.

Many birds flying about in parties. Some of the goldfinches still wear their summer colors, yellow and black. Walking in the lane, we came upon a large mixed flock, feeding on the thistles and silkweed of an adjoining field which is overrun with these weeds. There were goldfinches, blue-birds, sparrows, robins; and perched in a tree, at no great distance, were several meadow-larks apparently attracted by the crowd, for they sat quietly looking on. Altogether there must have been several hundreds in the flock, for there were frequently six or eight hanging upon one thistle-stalk. Some were feeding busily; others were flitting about, now on the fences, now in the road. It was a gay, pretty sight. We disturbed them, of course, passing in their midst; but they did not seem much alarmed. Taking flight, as we came close upon them, they alighted again on the rails and weeds, a few yards beyond, repeating over and over the same movement as we walked slowly on, until more than half the flock had actually accompanied us in this way a good piece of road, a quarter of a mile. They seemed half convinced that we meant no harm to them. As we reached the end of the lane and turned into the highway, some went back to their feast; others, as it was near sunset, flew away in parties.

Fine sunset; the evening still and quiet. The lake beautiful in its reflections of the sky. Soft barred clouds were floating above the hills, and the color of each lay faithfully repeated on the water;–pink, violet, gray, and blue in successive fields.

Friday, 29th.–Great change in the weather. Chilly, pinching day. The county fair of the Agricultural Society is now going on in the village, which is thronged with wagons and chilly-looking people. Three or four thousand persons, men, women, and children, sometimes attend these fairs; to-day the village is thought more crowded than it has been any time this year; neither the circus, nor menagerie, nor election, has collected so many people as the Fair.

Our domestic manufactories are really very interesting, and highly creditable to the housewives of the county. Some of the flannels and carpeting are of excellent quality. A very short time since, before imported woollens were reduced as low in price as they are to-day, a large amount of carpeting was made by families in the inland counties, and some of the best houses were furnished throughout with domestic manufactures, the wool being raised on the farm, and spun, dyed, and woven in the house, or in the immediate neighborhood. At this moment many such carpets are found in our county, and are probably thought imported by those who are not aware how much work of the kind is done among our rural population. Some are made on the Venetian patterns, like stair carpeting, but others are imitations of ingrain. There is still another kind of carpeting, more humble in quality, much used in the country, rag carpeting, some of which may been seen in every farm-house, and common in the villages also; strips of cotton, woollen, or linen are cut, sewed together, and dyed of different colors, when they are woven with a warp of tow, in Venetian patterns. Some of these are very pretty and neat. One of the best and largest country inns in the interior of this State is almost wholly carpeted in this way.

Besides excellent flannels and carpeting, we saw very good shawls, stamped table-covers, blankets, shirting and sheeting, toweling and table linen; leather and morocco; woollen stockings, mittens, gloves, and socks; very neat shoes and boots, on Paris patterns; embroidery, and fancy work of several kinds; some very good broadcloth; pretty plaid and striped woollen materials, for dresses; handsome bed-quilts, of unusually pretty patterns, and well quilted. Altogether this was the most creditable part of the in-door exhibition. Every one must feel an interest in these fairs; and it is to be hoped they will become more and more a source of improvement and advantage in everything connected with farming, gardening, dairy-work, manufacturing, mechanical, and household labors.

Saturday, 30th.–Milder again. There are still many grasshoppers thronging the fields and roadsides of warm days. The turkeys, however, make great havoc among them; these birds fatten very much on the grasshoppers of September.