October.
It is now October—the tenth month in the year. It was anciently called wyn monat, or wine month, because this is the season of the vintage. An old stanza says,
“Then for ‘October month’ they put
A rude illuminated cut,
Reaching the grapes from off the vine,
Or pressing them, or turning wine;
Or something to denote that there
Was vintage at this time of year.”
In this country, we have some grapes, but we make no wine, or very little. With us, October is a beautiful month; for now the green leaves of the forest are changed and present a variety of the most brilliant hues. The woodbine is seen climbing up the trees and rocks, as red as the coat of a British soldier. The ash, the maple, the oak, the shumack, are clothed in red, yellow, and purple of every shade. The mountain seems to be robed in a coat of many colors.
Although winter is approaching, and already many of the leaves are dropping from the boughs to wither and to perish, still the aspect of the forest is gay and brilliant, as if nature put on her most gorgeous garments at the very moment when death and decay are approaching.
While these scenes are presented to the eye, the farmer is busy in gathering his crop of Indian corn, digging his potatoes, and securing the pumpkins, squashes, beets, and other vegetables of the garden. The migratory birds have departed, but the whistle of the quail is heard at morning and evening. The drumming of the partridge murmurs through the forest, and the squirrel is seen feasting upon the chestnut and walnut trees. October is, indeed, a pleasant month.
The Island of Hong Kong.