november fragrance quotes

Early in November.—At its farther end the lane already described opens into a broad grassy upland field of over twenty acres, slightly sloping to the south. Here I am accustom'd to walk for sky views and effects, either morning or sundown. To-day from this field my soul is calm'd and expanded beyond description, the whole forenoon by the clear blue arching over all, cloudless, nothing particular, only sky and daylight. Their soothing accompaniments, autumn leaves, the cool dry air, the faint aroma—crows cawing in the distance — two great buzzards wheeling gracefully and slowly far up there—the occasional murmur of the wind, sometimes quite gently, then threatening through the trees—a gang of farm-laborers loading corn-stalks in a field in sight, and the patient horses waiting.
Selected Poems
 By Walt Whitman

The autumns in New England, and indeed in all North America, are as pleasant, notwithstanding the horrible things related of their terrible smoky days, as any European country in the same latitude can boast. There is, usually, during a part of the months of October and November, a succession of fair sunny days, that seem to breathe almost the freshness and inspire the feelings of spring. True, the flowers and blossoms do not display their beauty nor exhale their fragrance, but the forest trees assume such rich and varied tints, and the orchards offer such a profusion and variety of excellent fruit, and "from the boughs such savory odor is blown," that the eye and appetite which are not gratified, must be fastidious indeed. And who can ramble out on a bright November afternoon, when the sun seems to shed down all his glory, as if intending to show off his broad face to the best advantage before shrouding it beneath the gloomy veil ef winter, without acknowledging that
"Though all the gay foppery of Nature is flown," the earth is still beautiful?
Northwood; a Tale of New England, Volume 1
 By Sarah Josepha Buell Hale

Thanksgiving Rhymes.
By Mrs. Jennie Busery.
Let each pupil before reciting advance to the front and exhibit the fruit or vegetable of which he speaks.
The apple rosy and sweet I bring
Of all the fruits I crown it king.
The ruddy carrots' feathery plume
Will brighten well this festive room.
The soothing celery stalk I serve,
'Twill brace the weak and trembling nerve.
If you have tears, my friend, to shed
Prepare, for I come from the onion bed.
Although you're dainties rich and rare.
The turnip calm we cannot spare.
Within its rough and seamy sides
The horny squash rich treasures hides.
The parsnip paled in the still moonlight
But gathered sweetness in the night.
The sunshine of the summer sweet
Is garnered in the rosy beet.
Whipped in cream or baked in jacket,
The potato—we must never lack it.
Tomatoes " Love's own apple " still
I bring it with a ready will.
The cabbage here a question asks.
The answer is a serious task;
"What difference is there now between
My head and yours?"
There's none I wten.
And here to crown this noble feast.
Though last it is by no means least.
The pumpkin, rich with autumn's gold,
The treasure of the day of old,
I bring, and in my vision spy,
The luscious fragrant " pumpkin pie."

A gray and sullen November rain, coming down over the hills as if it meant to seize and wrap you in its chilly folds, has its really charming side, too. It is good to be out on the hill-side pastures then. The brown and matted grasses, the faded ferns, the stripped trees, the straggling sheep huddled under the lee of the stone wall, and the woodland dimly receding like a ship at sea in the dense fog, start around the thought a crowd of familiar associations. Home comforts take shape instantly in the mind, and the winter landscape before the imaginary view grows green in the prospect of its recurring pleasures. There is a mysterious power in these autumn rains to shut one up within himself, which begets the cosy feeling that attends upon their approach; and if we come nearer still and look close enough, we can detect, if we cannot trace, the secret law that holds our souls to the heart of Nature .
Homespun, Or, Five and Twenty Years Ago
By Thomas Lackland


NOVEMBER. (1892.)
A song-bird sits upon my porch and sings
Songs that are full of summer joy and rest,
As though he held his heart within his breast;
A lovely butterfly with golden wings
Floats like a blossom on the sunny air;
Fragrant and sweet the many blooming things
That make my winter garden bright and fair;
The leaves turn to the sunshine, shimmering the while,
The ripened berries in the pepper trees
Hold in their rosy globes the reddened glow
Which constant Sun's warm kisses will impart;
The grass is golden where does fall the smile
Of the warm sunshine. Flies and bees
Make gentle murmur in the noonday's heart;
Calm the wind's breath as though it were asleep;
As night does fall the moon does upward creep,
Set round with stars, like shining points of gold,
Seeing a world as fair with blossoming
As it were summer or sweet-budding spring.

California "where Sets the Sun", 1876-1904
By Eliza A. Wetherby Otis

The Pumpkins in the Corn
Amber and blue, the smoke behind the hill,
Where in the glow fades out the morning star,
Curtains the autumn cornfield, sloped afar,
And strikes an acrid savour on the chill.

The hilltop fence shines saffron o'er the still
Unbending ranks of bunched and bleaching corn,
And every pallid stalk is crisp with morn,
Crisp with the silver autumn morns distil.
Purple the narrowing alleys stretched between
The spectral shooks, a purple harsh and cold,
But spottedj where the gadding pumpkins run,
With bursts of blaze that startle the serene
Like sudden voices,—globes of orange bold,
Elate to mimic the unrisen sun.
Poems
By Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

Even as we tread on the fallen and decaying leaves of our old favorites the bright blue Commeline, the gay Convolvulus, and the latest rose, we are consoled for their loss by the unchanging eonstancy of our “little darling,” the sweet and unpretending Mignionette, “Without one tint upon her modest garb, To draw the idle stare of wandering eyes.”
Through the chill rains of autumn, and the first frosts of the unconfirmed winter, we may still inhale its delicate perfumes, and gather a nosegay of its pale flowers. In some mild seasons, we have seen the light snow-flakes, lying like a downy mantle on its delicate green leaves, and melting into pearly, glistening drops beneath the bright beams of the early November sun.
So rich
In precious fragrance is this lowly one,
So loved for her sweet qualities, that I
Should love her first, among a world of flowers;
For she is like some few belov’d ones here,
Whom eyes, perchance, might slightingly pass o'er,
But whose true wisdom, gentleness and worth,
Unchanging friendship, ever-faithful love,
And countless minor beauties of the mind,
Attract our hearts in deep affection still.”
The Youth's Literary Messenger, Volume 1

From Caroline A. Soule's novel, The Pet of the Settlement. “The prairies were brilliant with the nodding crowns and the golden rod and the waving spires of the wild sun-flower; the low thickets that hedge them were royal with glossy-leaved hazle bushes and crimson-plumed sumachs— masses of purple asters clustering lovingly about their roots; the forests were gorgeous with scarlet maples, yellow hickories, dark green oaks and silveryleaved cottonwoods, while down on the river-bottoms and all along the banks of the little creeks, the brown vines of the wild grape were drooping heavily with their thousand clusters of dead-ripe fruit . . . long ere theywere looking for it, a crisping frost had tinted the long grass of the prairies with a sunlike hue, and crowned as with rubies the old maple that shadowed their cabin. “But so glorious was that autumn, that none of them mourned for the lost summer. Like a dream of beauty it lay on their hearts; day after day of the calmest, lovliest weather coming to delight them. The golden air was fragrant with balmy winds; the sky was splendid, a thousand flitting tints of blue and amber chasing over its zenith, while pale, purplish mists hung about its horizon; the woodland grew each day more gorgeous in its coloring; the river sang more softly, while the prairies were more magnificent than ever, their long grass rolling and swelling like the waves of an ocean, while the flowers that lingered were kingly in their hues, giving here a rich amethystine glory to the landscape, and there clothing it with a star-like radiance.’’ (The text states that the events connected with the scenes described above occurred fifteen years before the novel was published, which was in 1860.)
Autumn Notes in Iowa
By Selden Lincoln Whitcomb


It was November now, but who that has really lived in the country—lived in it "all the year round," and learned every change in the seasons, every look of the sky, all the subtle combinations of air, and light, and color, and scent, which give to outdoor life its indescribable variety and unflagging interest, who of such initiated ones does not know how marvelously delicious November can sometimes be? How tender the clear, thin, yellow tone of the struggling sunbeams, the half frosty streaks of red on the pale blue-green sky, the haze of approaching winter over all! How soft, and subdued, and tired the world seems—all the bustle over, ready to fall asleep, but first to whisper gently good night! And to feel November to perfection, for, after all, this shy autumnal charm is not so much a matter of sight, as of every sense combined, sound and scent and sight together, lapsing into one vague consciousness of harmony and repose—the place of places is a wood. A wood where the light, faint at the best, comes quivering and brokenly through the not yet altogether unclothed branches, where the fragrance of the rich leafy soil mingles with that of the breezes from the not far distant sea, where the dear rabbits scud about in the most unexpected places, and the squirrels are up aloft making arrangements for the winter—oh! a wood in late autumn has a strange glamour of its own, that comes over me, in spirit, even as I write of it, far, far away from country sights and sounds, further away still from the long-ago days of youth and leisure, and friends to wander with, in the Novembers that then were never gloomy.
Hathercourt
By Mrs. Molesworth


Going down the street some nights ago, I had a vivid sense of the fragance of elm wood burning in the open fire. You remember the elm that fell prey to insect attacks last summer. Frank recently cut it down, and, as it is already dry, he has been burning it in the fireplace these cold nights. I never before realized the appealing odor of burning wood as I did upon passing his house that night, when the chimney was pouring forth upon the crisp November air that aromatic smoke which gave to the street for some distance up and down suggestions of cathedral incense. What perfume the smoke of pagan altars must have given to the sensitive, well-trained savage nostrils! Henceforth for me the elm will have suggestions of fragrance as well as of stateliness.
Rural Manhood, Volumes 9-10-1918

In the days of our childhood, leaf-life in its many forms, was always full of fascination. When we were young things we spent very pleasurable hours in the great heaps that collected, wind-gathered, on the lawn in the angle of the old ivied wall. There we used to dive and romp, playing the old, old game of the Babes in the Wood. In those days, indeed, we held fast to many golden fantasies that somehow have wilted beneath the light of experience. Every robin was potentially from elfland, and every rabbit, as likely as not, from the realms of Lewis Carroll. Slave-hunting (that was when Uucle Tom's Cabin held us in thrall) was another favourite game. One would hide, and the other, after a stipulated interval, would loose the savage bloodhound on the fugitive's track. Said ferocious canine was an old yellow collie —and how the old dog did enjoy the sport! Ranging like a setter, he would sniff at every leaf heap—for the game was at its zenith at the end of October. When at length his olfactory nerves revealed runaway, he would bound high in the air and with short sharp barks descend upon the prostrate form of his quarry, "snuzzling," as we called it, in his attempts to lick the face of the captive. Never was there such a children's dog! He learnt in time to play the game according to rules. At our " Don't look. Laddie," he would trot away round the corner and lie with his head between his paws while we hid cunningly. Then at a whistle he would come in chase, barking with excitement. Sometimes he would find his quest in the laurel thicket, sometimes —this at hay harvest—in the heart of a rick, but generally among the leaf-heaps in the proper season. R.l.P. ! He died full of years—and to the last was the same sunny old comrade that we romped with in the golden days. I think that when he died he took with him many of our illusions—but even now when I think of the English autumn he comes back, and brings with him pleasant memories.

Leaves!Leaves! There are some who love the smell of incense wafted down dim cathedral isles. But far more grateful to me is the fragrance that fills one's nostrils where they burn dead heaps of leaves in that great fane of which the ceiling is the sky. One gets a breath of it now and again when one sits by a wood fire, and I can lie back in my chair and see the blue smoke wreathing skyward as the old gardener piles on yet another barrowload.
Gilbert Owen-1908

ON BURNING LEAVES
THE leaves are falling. For days they have been
dropping, now silently one by one, now rustling down in hurried companies. Across the open spaces they scurry before the wind. They drif-t into corners and snuggle into hollows. With a pageant counterpane of red and yellow and orange and brown they cover the garden beds and tuck themselves in about the bushes and the shrubs.
It is time to burn the leaves. If we were provident, like Mother Nature in her prodigality, we should not burn them. We should heap them together to lie, wet by rains and snows and warmed by the sun, till they melted slowly down into a fine humus to feed new leaves, new branches, new blooms. But we lack the leisure, we have not the patience. So we burn them.
With slow sweeping strokes we rake them into piles. The iterated swing of the rake, the hissing rustle of the leaves as they roll themselves in a gay wave before it and curl into an iridescent foam over its back, are soothing, hypnotic, somniferous. This is such stuff as dreams are made on.
Then the burning. Then the fire. Why do we pretend to have forgotten what the Parsee knows? We are all fire worshipers in the inmost heart of us. With fire we warm us; with fire we cook our food; with fire we drive our engines, turn our wheels of industry, mold intractable materials to our uses; with fire we soothe our nerves, kindle our imaginations, cheer our hearts. Fire worshippers? An we are not, we are false to the chief god of the household hearth.
A spitting match—alas that we are too sophisticated to strike flint on steel, too civilized to rub wood on wood —is thrust deep into the leafy pile. A moment—it is out. We have smothered it. But no. A thin gray thread steals out and climbs curling and twisting. It thickens, spreads out, broadens. A woolly mass of smoke wells up thru the pile and whitens the air above it. A darting tongue of crimson flashes in the cloud, the flame bursts forth, the pile is alight. The rake slackens idle in the hand as we watch the mounting billows, as we breathe in the haunting fragrance. Smoke, wood smoke, leaf smoke, white smoke, is good to look upon. Smoke, vegetation smoke, nature’s smoke, pungent smoke, is good to smell. Ruddy with the flame it glows. White in the air it drifts and rolls. Spicy in the nostrils it vivifies and quickens.
There was a poet once who wrote,
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year.
Melancholy indeed! Saddest forsooth! What manner of poet man was he? Had he never raked leaves and burnt them? Had he never piled an altar to the year that was passing? Never burnt his incense to the new-risen year that was to come? 
The Independent, Volume 80-1914

THE Feast of Saint Martin falls, as we all know, on the 11th of November. There is a happy appropriateness in this. Saint Martin, we recall, divided his cloak with the beggar; and November divides her stores with any one who would partake of them. Particularly is this the case from the first day of the month up to Saint Martin’s Day. Any one going into the woods and fields will find treasures of many kinds of which he may freely have a share. If the wood be a pine wood, the good gifts of November are warmth-giving, like Saint Martin’s cloak: the pine cones. Pine cones make delightful supplementary fuel for the open fire; either as kindling or as a brightly blazing top layer, they give both warmth and fragrance. An afternoon’s pine coning will supply one with cones sufficient for many winter evenings.
Then, there are the autumn leaves, at their brightest and best during the first days of November. Pressed between the leaves of old magazines, they can be taken out at Christmas and used for decorations. Berries there are, too; red barberries especially. And in some fields there are wild rose haws, which, strung on heavy thread, make even a brighter Christmas tree decoration than cranberries.
Of course there are nuts; indeed, nuts are usually the one gift of November which we share. This year, let us share her other treasures. We shall be so much the richer in lovely possessions, – and also in a deeper friendship with nature, - as a result of going out into the woods and fields for her treasures.
Home Progress, Volume 6-1916

 Sometimes, in the wintery twilight, the wind brings to your nose the mingled fragrance of burning
charcoal and roasting chestnuts, and all at once you see Bartholf's woods, dusky and bare-limbed, between you and the cliffs of the houses across the Street.
You stop and trade with the Greek,bending over the roasting pan on top of his bucket of fire, not because your stomach cries aloud for chestnuts, but because you can almost feel again the crackling leaves beneath your feet and hear the wind keening through the stripped tree tops of Bartholf's woods. Collier's, Volume 70-1922

There is a peculiar fragrance about the autumn woods— a fruity, spicy, balsamic odor, suggesting ripe grapes and pine woods. It is nature fruiting. Seeded asters and goldenrods, half-dried leaves, aged thoroughwort flowers, sassafras, all such things contribute to this subtle fall atmosphere, so delicious to breathe and smell. But it needs the warm sunshine to bring it out, just as new-mown hay needs the heat to make it sweet. On a sunny day in October one should take a holiday in the woods. For there is no other month like this. We love the pale, shy beauty of spring and the rare day in June. But summer brings its fierce heats, and September is usually a dusty, drouthy, windy month. Suddenly the gorgeous skies and soft airs of October are upon us, making us long to dream a lifetime away surrounded by this perfect atmosphere, and this beauty which is like the purple robe of a queen bedecked with gems.
New Outlook, Volume 54-1896

NOVEMBER TWENTIETH
A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. The most attractive sentences are, perhaps, not the wisest, but the surest and
roundest.
A Week on the Concord River. -Henry David Thoreau


NOVEMBER SEVENTEENTH
Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. 
Henry David Thoreau

OCTOBER 9, 1851. To Conantum. The witchhazel here is in full blossom on this magical hillside, while its broad yellow leaves are falling. It is an extremely interesting plant, — October and November's child, and yet reminds me of the very earliest spring. Its blossoms smell like the spring, like the willow catkins; by their color as well as fragrance they belong to the saffron dawn of the year, suggesting amid all these signs of autumn, falling leaves and frost, that the life of Nature, by which she eternally flourishes, is untouched. It stands here in the shadow on the side of the hill, while the sunlight from over the top of the hill lights up its topmost sprays and yellow blossoms. Its spray, so jointed and angular, is not to be mistaken for any other. I lie on my back with joy under its boughs. While its leaves fall, its blossoms spring. The autumn, then, is indeed a spring. All the year is a spring. I see two blackbirds high overhead, going south, but I am going north in my thought with these hazel blossoms. It is a faery place. This is a part of the immortality of the soul. 
Journal, in, 59, 60-Henry David Thoreau

A walk about the garden in November is productive of a sort of mournful ecstasy. There have been many hard frosts, and all but the most faithful plants are gone, and these seem far more precious than all the beauties of the summer. It is Indian Summer and within my sheltering garden walls many a plant is tricked by the "blue and gold mistake" and ventures a timid resurrection. Beside me where I sit upon the sun-warmed garden steps, wrapped in the golden warmth—"almost myself deceived," a little Corydalis in the wall has burst forth in a springlike flowering above a gay colony of purple and white Horned Violets assembled in the path. Nepeta flowers again delicately from a low wall top and a single apricot-coloured Poppy sways above it. China Roses bloom undismayed, and a great white Rugosa Rose, like the ghost of June, presses its wan cheek against the sunny wall.
Perhaps all summer I have not paused to notice Sweet Marjoram, but now how grateful I am for its warm purplishpink spread and spicy fragrance. Aconitum autumnale still flowers—a chill-appearing presence, rising above the cold rounds of Chrysanthemum nipponicum. One border verge is quite freshly blue and white where Salvia Bluebeard and Sweet Alyssum riot unharmed. Snapdragons and California Poppies gleam here and there in sheltered corners, and in a stone jar Petunias, bizarre and careless, flaunt their rose and purple skirts in the face of the grim presence.
These few pale autumn flowers,
How beautiful they are!
Than all that went before
Than all the Summer store
How lovelier far!  
Colour in My Garden
 By Louise Beebe Wilder

In nearly every garden we may now see the smoke arising from the burning weeds; all around the air is filled with their aromatic scent; we may hear the hiss and crackle. It is not unpleasant to watch the opal smoke curl upwards through the mist, and, as one looks, one feels the true charm of Tennyson's lines—
"A golden Autumn woodland reels
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds."
In a corner of the garden a few blooms of the blue gentian I find, yet everywhere smoulders the flame of the lingering tints. The gold of the leaves is given to earlier Autumntide when they stood out, this year in particular, in the most charming vignettes as the trees stood enveloped in the filmy golden haze, glorifying the most prosaic thing; now, this gold, as it were, is almost consumed, but dross and embers remain on the cold hearth of Autumn's furnace!
From a Middlesex Garden: A Book of Garden Thoughts
 By Alfred H. Hyatt

To-day there is not a gossamer to be seen on either branch or paling! I could not help thinking how fickle Nature is in some of her ways, for, to all appearances, to-day was a perfect replica of yesterday, when the white gossamers were everywhere: the same misty morn of grey light, the ceaseless drip from the trees, whose leaves are covered with the white of the frost's frondescence. Up from the river over the banks the mists come tumbling through the long, dreary day, prefixing Winter. The roads are sticky, the paths clammy, and the soil, moistened by the heavy mists, clings to one's boots; the fragrance of decaying leaves, to-day so very much like April hyacinths, pervades the air. These are the days that gossamer-time brings, telling of many more waiting ahead ere the blue skies of Spring shall dawn!
From a Middlesex Garden: A Book of Garden Thoughts
 By Alfred H. Hyatt

THE leaves are falling in greater profusion, but the fall has reached its climax, for the cold wind and mist and rain has whispered to them of Winter. Every lane that we found so cool in Summer with the overshading foliage when the Summer land was filled with shimmering haze, has changed its many mingled perfumes that came from the hedgerow blossoms and bank-set herb, for that of decaying leaves. No more are our favourite ways lit with the clear leaf-light, but are filled with the smoke from woodland fires. It is interesting to watch the fall of the leaves as they drop from the different trees, each in their own peculiar way, each dyed in their individual colour. The leaf of the ash falls down heavily, almost unchanged in hue; yet how quickly to turn black when fallen. The birch, elm, and beech, and almost all the other trees, give back to Nature their leaves in vivid tints,
flying in the air, wafted far in their fall.
From a Middlesex Garden: A Book of Garden Thoughts
 By Alfred H. Hyatt

In the warmth and glow of my room I sit, the firelight mirroring itself upon the old-world furniture. A fragrance as of spice and cedar is around me. Ah, I remember; a little while ago I lifted the lid of a jar of pot-pourri.
"An old blue jar beneath the old bureau,
Traced with a dragon, quaint in its design,
Wreathed willow leaves and needles of the pine,
Owned once by one in Cathay, long ago.
Whence came the perfume, ling'ring in the room,
Of roses, lavender? The spicy breath
From lifted lid tells of a faith in death,
Love's constancy fills all the twilight gloom!
Sweet old pot-pourri, tales of days gone by—
New tales in old, crisp leaves; though roses die
By thousands, though a hundred summers pass,
Though sands run whole shores through Time's measuring glass,
There will not be a tale so sweet, so pure,
As this jar's fragrant spiced leaves immure!"
And as I sit in the rose-leaf fragrance there come to me pictures of gardens where maybe some of the leaves were gathered. Sweet dream-gardens! One of which I dream is a garden of the long ago, whose date I know not, but it is very, very old; the sunlight and shadows are playing among the dipt yews, the wind sings softly among its alleys, heavily ladened with the scent of lilies and lavender. Walking along its paths, I see a maiden in the golden sunlight of life's morning. The dew is still upon the flowers, and she is standing beside the sundial, plucking blooms from its rosewreathed pedestal, above which is the quaint motto, "Quid celerius umbra?" (What is swifter than a shadow ?)
From a Middlesex Garden: A Book of Garden Thoughts
 By Alfred H. Hyatt

Then we three strolled down toward the long walk to take the first step toward capturing the Garden of Dreams, that I might live my life in it. A song sparrow sang merrily, a bluebird purled away from the Mother Tree, the soft bright air bore the fragrance of Russian violets, and a bit of the tangle was gay with the hardy pompon chrysanthemums, tawny, red, yellow, pink, and white. My heart beat joyously, for love held me by either hand, and before me there was work to be done, and work is life. Still it is the first day of November! Fie upon you, melancholy autumn poets!
The Garden of a Commuter's Wife
 By Mabel Osgood Wright

A cornfield is one of the picturesque things about the farm. A patch of warm brown in a field of russet green, and all about its edge are ranked in single-file the dusky, rain-blackened bean-stacks, like so many outposts or pickets. Over the cornfield are thickly strewn the golden globes of the pumpkin, in and between the regularly laid out rows of shocks a-drying in the wind. What queer shapes these corn pyramids take on day by day as the rain beats them down! Here are some with sides bent in as if courtesying to its neighbor, here are fat old women in huge skirts and yellow waterproofs, and Indians with feathered head-dress tossing in the breeze; one in particular looks like a pair of dancers awhirl in the dizzy mazes of a waltz or galop. At its farther edge the field is bounded by a "stab-and-run'' fence, each rail and stake making a sharp black line against the golden haze of the sky that makes the horizon of the hill-slope. So the corn ripens in wind and sun till the farmer piles its rustling stalks and golden treasure into the old ox-cart to be carried down over the long hill to be dumped, load after load, into the long, narrow floors of the barns. The whole length of one side of the floor is walled up with fragrant mows of hay.
Prose Pastorals
 By Herbert Milton Sylvester
The unhusked corn in the great floors lies four or five feet in depth, and if not husked out rapidly will "heat," and the corn will become mouldy and worthless for man or beast. Invitations are sent out to the young farmer-folk to come to the husking. It is as much a season of merry-making as of work, and the invitations are eagerly accepted. But what a busy time for the housewife! What pots of baked-beans, what pans of brown-bread, and what dozens of pies of pumpkin, apple, and mince, go into the huge brick oven! what kneadings of pastry and of fresh, flaky crust occupy the intervening time of preparation! What bustling to and fro of matronly housewife and red-cheeked maid in anticipation of the household event of the year, and what secret errands the boys have run these last two days to the grocery at the "Corners"! The house breathes the delicate perfume of plum-puddings, of pies and pastry, and of steaming baked-beans, as if Thanksgiving had come prematurely; and what a dainty perfume it was! Lubin has no extract whose odor can approach it, — this Epicurean fragrance of a typical New England farm kitchen. Call it a smell if you will, but later years have found no substitute for the homely sweets of boyhood, and they never will for me. No blaze ever looked so cheery as that which gleamed out from the wide mouth of the old-fashioned brick oven, with its cord-wood sticks crackling so musically within, and when its fires went down, and the embers were raked out and piled up on the hearth of the big fireplace beside it, what a dull red glow stained its overarching walls as they slowly cooled before the mistress should come with her brimming pots and dishes, which were, like the three worthies, to be tried as they never were before. What flavor, what piquancy of taste, the old oven lends to these viands of the true New England table! and to the boy and girl of those days they taught some very simple likings, but likings which were never to be forgotten, wherever their lot in life may have taken them.Prose Pastorals
 By Herbert Milton Sylvester