OCTOBER.
ANOTHER year has gone its round,
The summer's growing old;
October days their wealth have found
In autumn's brown and gold.
The chill winds whistle through the trees,
And tell of winter's blast;
And now a shower of gorgeous leaves
Is falling, tailing fast.
The wheat is safely garnered In,
The apples all are stored;
And merry voices they that ring
Around the festal board.
Their work is done, the labor o'er,
The harvest too is past;
The workman's worthy of his hire,
And he may rest at last.
Then welcome, sweet October days,
Though summer flee with thee;
She dons her brightest robe and ways
To say good-by to me.