In September.

—Elizabeth Cole.

—Sunday Afternoon.

MORNINGS frosty grow, and cold,
Brown the grass on hill and wold;
Crows are cawing sharp and clear
When the rustling corn grows sere;
Mustering flocks of blackbirds call,
Here and there a few leaves fall,
In the meadows larks sing sweet,
Chirps the cricket at our feet,
In September.

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September Days.

—George Arnold.

IN flickering light and shade the broad stream goes,
With cool, dark nooks and checkered, rippling shallows;
Through reedy ferns its sluggish current flows,
Where lilies grow and purple-blossomed mallows.

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