October's foliage yellows with his cold.

And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood.

Or August, or October, or whenever they begin.

No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning.

October is a fine and dangerous season in America . . . a wonderful time to begin anything at all.

Is it the shrewd October wind Brings the tears into her eyes? Does it blow so strong that she must fetch Her breath in sudden sighs?