m and to us, Indian summer, which is the finest season
of the year. The Indian winter of the dark hours before dawn
steals dawn with all spears pointed for the massacre of the summer
flowers that still linger unprotected, and the white magic of its
own cold changes the spears to delicate, tiny frost fronds and
blooms on all the outdoor world. Then, with the full day, comes
Indian summer, slipping along all the pasture paths and lingering
in the sheltered hollows among the evergreens. In her presence all
the sorrowing plants seem to lift their heads and a new blossom
time comes back to the brown, despondent goldenrod. A warmth glows
in its pith which is as dear as that of its prime yet has in it
some of the stir of autumn crispness. Under its power the draggled
clots that once were flowers lift, fluff out, bud and bloom as
does the magic plant under the potent spell of the sorcerer of the
Far East. You may see on such Indian summer mornings the florets
of these dead goldenrod stems lifting and spreading and before
your very eyes the plant bursts into bloom once more. These blooms
are the day-time ghosts with which the November pastures are full,
misty gray flowers that stand on the same receptacles that held
the yellow blooms of late summer, but are lovelier far than the
first blossoms were. Each dewy night, each rainy day, they shrivel
and seem to pass but the warmth of the sun and the drying wind
need but a brief hour in which to bring them all out again. After
Indian summer has gone for good and the December snows are deep
the stiff stems will still hold these renewing gray blooms above
the drifts and make all the pasture beautiful with the ghosts of
summer flowers. Nor, lovely as they are to my eye, will they be
less beautiful to the winter chippies, the goldfinches, juncos and
a host of other seed-eating birds who will find them bountifully
spread for their delectation all the winter through. On rainy days
I like to bring these brawn stems into camp and, setting them by
the glow of the open fire, see them bloom as they dry out. It is a
most magical flowering and to be one's own wizard is one of the
delightful, privileges of being a November sojourner in the
pasture.

*****

For all the Indian winter which some nights ago brought us a
temperature of twenty degrees and left ice a half-inch thick on
shallow pools many of the pasture folk hold their summer attire
well. The wild apple trees have hardly made a change,