e is peculiarly genial; and in sheltered places, as on the
side of a bank, or of a barn or house, one becomes acquainted and
friendly with the sunshine. It seems to be of a kindly and homely
nature. And the green grass, strewn with a few withered leaves, looks
the more green and beautiful for them. In summer or spring Nature is
farther from one's sympathies.

* * * * *

_October 8._--Another gloomy day, lowering with portents of rain close
at hand. I have walked up into the pastures this morning, and looked
about me a little. The woods present a very diversified appearance just
now, with perhaps more varieties of tint than they are destined to wear
at a somewhat later period. There are some strong yellow hues, and some
deep red; there are innumerable shades of green, some few having the
depth of summer; others, partially changed towards yellow, look freshly
verdant with the delicate tinge of early summer or of May. Then there is
the solemn and dark green of the pines. The effect is, that every tree
in the wood and every bush among the shrubbery has a separate existence,
since, confusedly intermingled, each wears its peculiar color, instead
of being lost in the universal emerald of summer. And yet there is a
oneness of effect likewise, when we choose to look at a whole sweep of
woodland instead of analyzing its component trees. Scattered over the
pasture, which the late rains have kept tolerably green, there are spots
or islands of dusky red,--a deep, substantial hue, very well fit to be
close to the ground,--while the yellow, and light, fantastic shades of
green soar upward to the sky. These red spots are the blueberry and
whortleberry bushes. The sweet-fern is changed mostly to russet, but
still retains its wild and delightful fragrance when pressed in the
hand. Wild China-asters are scattered about, but beginning to wither. A
little while ago, mushrooms or toadstools were very numerous along the
wood-paths and by the roadsides, especially after rain. Some were of
spotless white, some yellow, and some scarlet. They are always mysteries
and objects of interest to me, springing as they do so suddenly from no
root or seed, and growing one wonders why. I think, too, that some
varieties are pretty objects, little fairy tables, centre-tables,
standing on one leg. But their growth appears to be checked now, and
they are of a brown tint and decayed.

The farm business to-day is to dig potatoes.