THOSE PICKLES OF MARM’S

It doesn’t need eyesight to tell that it’s fall,

Up here in Maine.

Though the glamor of yellow is over it all,

And the cold, swishing rain

Comes peltering down and goes stripping the

leaves,

And smokes in cold spray from the edge of the

eaves.

All, it’s wild out of doors, but come in here with

Where mother’s as busy as busy can be.

And you need not your eyes, sir, to know it is fall

In this stifle and stirring and steam like a pall.

For there’s savor of spices and odorous charms

When your nose gets a sniff of these pickles of

marm’s.

You know it is fall without using your eyes,

Up here in Maine.

There is fragrance that floats as the flower-pot

dies

In the tears of the rain.

And the hand of the frost strips the sheltering

leaves

From the pumpkins, those bombs of the sentinel

sheaves

That stiffly and starkly keep gnard in the field,

A desolate rank without weapon or shield.

And the fragrance of death like a delicate musk

Floats up from the field through the crispness of

dusk;

Yet out from the kitchen, more savory far,

Drifts the fragrance of pickles compounded by

ma.

The autumn sweeps past like a dame to a ball,

Up here in Maine.

Her perfumes would stagger shy Springtime, but

Fall,

Like a matron of Spain,

Puts musk in her bosom and scent on her hair,

And prinks her gay robe with elaborate care.

Yet the fragrance she sheds has the savor of

death,

The brain is turned giddy beneath her fierce

breath,

Till over it all floats the vigorous scent

Of spices and hot things and good things, all

blent.

It’s wonderful, friend, how it tickles and calms,

—That whiff from those simmering pickles of

marm’s.