O Harp Of Life, So Speedily Unstrung!

October Turned My Maple's Leaves To Gold; The Most Are Gone Now; Here And There One Lingers: Soon These Will Slip From The Twigs' Weak Hold, Like Coins Between A Dying Miser's Fingers.

It Is Only Your Habitual Late Riser Who Takes In The Full Flavor Of Nature At Those Rare Intervals When He Gets Up To Go Afishing. He Brings Virginal Emotions And Unsatiated Eyes To The Sparkling Freshness Of Earth And Stream And Sky.

No Bird Has Ever Uttered Note That Was Not In Some First Bird's Throat; Since Eden's Freshness And Man's Fall No Rose Has Been Original.

Hebe's Here, May Is Here! The Air Is Fresh And Sunny; And The Miser-bees Are Busy Hoarding Golden Honey.

So I Sit There Kicked My Heels, Thinking About New Orleans, And Watching A Morbid Blue-bottle Fly Attempt To Commit Suicide By Butting His Head Against The Windowpane.