Scent of Autumn in Literature

Scent of Autumn in Literature

The air was the air of summer, yet there was that indescribabl something it it that reminded one of the first touch of autumn. Softly in the dark, quiet night the dew laid a refreshing hand upon the leaves and flowers as if to preserve them yet a while longer; but nevertheless there was the autumn scent which told one only too plainly that the drooping harebells and half blown fox gloves would in the morning be covered by a listening network of 'dew-strung gossamer.'
A Night's Fishing in Wales-A.T. Johnson

Bob seemed to catch the ore's nevousness: peering aobut her, she saw that the haze was increasing; and the odor--was it not like the all-pervading autumn scent of burning leaves--a scent not unpleasing, yet somewhat sinister, too?
Two alike: with illustrations
By Edith Barnard Delano

Is there any essence of Dick-
sonia fern, I wonder? Surely that giant who
my neighbor expects is to bound up the Alle-
ghanies will have his handkerchief scented with
that. The sweet fragrance of decay! When I
wade through by narrow cow-paths, it is as if I
had strayed into an ancient and decayed herb
garden. Nature perfumes her garments with
this essence now especially. She gives it to
those who go a-barberrying and on dank autumnal walks.
The very scent of it, if you
have a decayed frond in your chamber, will take
you far up country in a twinkling.

Those two charming creatures trudged through the
fine sand of the road, carried away by a childish
delight in making their light footfalls resound in
unison, happy to be enveloped in the same ray of
light, which seemed to belong rather to the sun of
the springtime, and to inhale together the perfumes
of autumn, laden with such rich spoil of vegetation
that they seemed like nourishment brought by the
air to feed the melancholy of newborn love.
The Chouans by Honore de Balzac

For the first moments Start-
sev was struck now by what he saw for the first time
in his life, and what he would probably never see
again; a world not like anything else, a world in
which the moonlight was as soft and beautiful, as
though slumbering here in its cradle, where there
was no life, none whatever; but in every dark poplar,
in every tomb, there was felt the presence of a mys-
tery that promised a life peaceful, beautiful, eternal.
The stones and faded flowers, together with the
autumn scent of the leaves, all told of forgiveness,
melancholy, and peace.
The lady with the dog: and other stories
By Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

Outsidea high wind was driving the fallen leaves
in swirls and eddies, and as Abel crossed the road to
the mill, he smelt the sharp autumn scent of the rot-
ting mould under the trees. Frost still sparkled on
the bright green grasses that had overgrown the
sides of the mill-race, and the poplar log over the
stream was as wet as though the dancing shallows
had skimmed it. Over the motionless wheel the
sycamore shed its broad yellow leaves into the brook,
where they fluttered downward with a noise that
was like the wind in the tree-tops.
The miller of Old Church
By Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow

But while I wonder thus the
rain suddenly ceases, the wind, as if weary of
striving, tired of destroying, lulls to a calm,
the gloomy pall of cloud above grows thin in
places, and a palid moon peeps through. A
delicious autumn scent arises from the storm-
beaten plants, and also an aroma of hope. It
will be a fine day to-morrow, and perhaps the
crops are not so much damaged as we feared.
Sea spray
By Frank Thomas Bullen

They were soon far into the wood, with the western
sky dwindling between the innumerable pillars of the trees.
It began to be dark and utterly silent save for the rustle of
the dead leaves as they went, and the shrilling chafe of bridle
or scabbard, or the snort of the great horse. Wherever the
eye turned the forest piers stood straight and solemn as the
columns in a hypostyle hall in some Eygptian temple. The
fretwork of boughs roofed them in with hardly a glimmering
through of the darkening sky above. There was a pungent
autumn scent on the air that seemed to rise like the incense
of years that had fallen to decay on the brown flooring of
the place, and there was no breath or vestige of a wind.
Uther and Igraine
By Warwick Deeping

The smell of the burning rubbish heaps —
I the penetrating November smell —
spread up from the clearings and filled
the chilly, windless evening air. It seemed a sort
of expression of the cold sky, those pale steel^ray
and sea-green wastes, deepening into sharp straight
bands of orange and smoke colour along the far
horizon. It seemed equally an expression of the
harsh, darkening upland pastures, dotted with
ragged stumps and backed by ragged forests. It
was the distinctive autumn smell of the backwoods
settlements, that smell which, taken into the blood
in childhood, can never lose its potency of magic,
its power over the most secret springs of memory
and longing.
The watchers of the trails: a book of animal life
By Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

A mellow September sunset gilded the birch copses
and lighted up the red trunks of the pines that crowned
the hill; a light breeze, scented with the ripe autumn
bouquet of the woods, swept the leaves, which were yet
crisp and dry, in fantastic dances along the road. The
river, a mere brook, but deep and swift, was now rushing
angrily through a rocky channel below and sent up a hol-
low roar. The rooks were hovering over their nests in a
black cloud, and their hoarse cawing was borne fitfully
on the wind. A flock of wild geese, flying southward,
passed overhead with their weird, clanging cry.
The Hon. Miss Ferrard
By May Laffan

As the train was speeding Fred Conrad to the state penitentiary
on a warm afternoon in the late autumn, the smell of
the freshly-plowed soil rose to his nostrils. Fred had frequently
ridden on trains through beautiful fields, but never
before had the odor of the soil seemed so sweet and balmy.
He drank deep of the breeze and it felt good. It soothed him
and lifted his despair. . . . But there was more than sweet-
ness and balm in the breeze that swept across the open, soft
earth. Language seemed to emanate from it and speak to
Fred, telling him of great wonders that hitherto had remained
unknown to him. It told of vast plains and of a wide world
where he had never set foot. He listened to the breeze and
his heart seemed to be knitting together — healing. Yes,
life was beautiful — and he would not surrender the smallest
claim to life. . . . The sentence which he had received that
morning no longer seemed so formidable — he would over-
come it • . . And at home things would order themselves
somehow until he got back. . . . And then — when he got
back — he would be a wiser man. . . . The freshly-plowed
fields were shedding a new light upon life and its prob-
lems. ...
The house of Conrad
By Elias Tobenkin

The distant plash of the tide upon the beach came
vaguely borne upon the wings of a wind that rustled
among the lime tree leaves of Squire Watson's new
plantation on North Street, and freighting itself with
odors of dulce and kelp and such wild scents as are
most sweet to dwellers by the sea, added as a tribute to
the fair girl waiting to welcome his toying fingers in
her hair, a hundred delicate breaths of autumn flowers
and ripened fruit and honey-combs, and that strange,
pungent, intoxicating, yet saddest of odors, that seems
the very breath of early autumn, the smell of dying
grass, and falling leaves, and shrinking sap, the fragrant
dying kiss of summer.
Dr. LeBaron and his daughters: a story of the old colony
By Jane Goodwin Austin

There is nothing more interesting to watch all
the year through than the life of the trees. When
you come back to school in September, the shade
in the hot days and the green grass make the
beginning of work much easier; and the change of
color from green to red or yellow is a joy each
day. Then, when the falling leaves cover the side-
walks and rustle under your feet and the queer
autumn smell comes up, you begin to think of
the pleasures of winter. When the leaves are all
gone, the tracery of the gnarled branches makes a
charming picture against the sky, and if they are
covered with furry snow or glittering ice, they are
Our Minnesota: a history for children
By Hester McLean Pollock