il next morning when, running out before breakfast, I make the rounds
and find everything untouched.

But a few days later the alarm comes again. There is no wind this time,
and, what is worse, an ominous silence falls at dusk over the orchard and
meadow. "Why is everything so still?" I ask myself. "Oh, of course--the
katydids aren't talking--and the crickets, and all the other whirr-y
things. Ah! That means business! My poor garden!"

"Jonathan!" I call, as I feel rather than see his shape whirling
noiselessly in at the big gate after his ride up from the station. "Help
me cover my nasturtiums. There'll be frost to-night."

"Maybe," says Jonathan's voice.

"Not maybe at all--surely. Listen to the katydids!"

"You mean, listen to the absence of katydids."

"Very well. The point is, I want newspapers."

"No. The point is, I am to bring newspapers."

"Exactly."

"And tuck up your nasturtiums for the night in your peculiarly ridiculous
fashion--"

"I know it looks ridiculous, but really it's sensible. There may be weeks
of summer after this."

And so the nasturtiums are tucked up, cozily hidden under the big layers
of sheets, whose corners we fasten down with stones. To be sure, the
garden _is_ rather a funny sight, with these pale shapes sprawling over
its beds. But it pays. For in the morning, though over in the vegetable
garden the squash leaves and lima beans are blackened and limp, my
nasturtiums are still pert and crisp. I pull off the papers, wondering
what the passers-by have thought, and lo! my gay garden, good for perhaps
two weeks more!

But a day arrives when even newspaper coddling is of no avail. Sometimes
it is in late September, sometimes not until October, but when it comes
there is no resisting.

The sun goes down, leaving a clear sky paling to green at the horizon. A
still cold falls upon the world, and I feel that it is the end. Shears in
hand, I cut everything I can--nasturtiums down to the ground,--leaves, buds,
and all,--feathery sprays of cosmos, asters by the armful. Those last
bouquets that I bring into the house are always the most beautiful, for I
do not have to save buds for later cutting. There will, alas, be no later
cutting.

So I fill my bowls and vases, and next morning I go out, well knowing what
I shall see. It is a beautiful sight, too, if one can forget its meaning.
The whole golden-green world of autumn has been touched with silver. In
the low-lying swamp beyond the