Hating the crowd, where we gregarious men
Lead lonely lives, I love society,

Nor seldom find the best with simple souls
Unswerved by culture from their native bent,
The ground we meet on being primal man,
And nearer the deep bases of our lives.

September 29.

J. R. Lowell.

'Tis not the little milk-white hands
That grace whatever work they do;
'Tis not the braided silken bands

That shade the eyes of tender blue;
And not the voice so low and sweet
That holds me captive to her feet.

She was not wooed, nor was I won.
What draws the dew-drop to the sun?

September 30.

Ye open the eastern windows,

That look towards the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of morning run.

Alice Cary.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,

But in mine is the wind of Autumn

And the first fall of the snow.

H. W. Longfellow.

September 29.

September 30.

OCTOBER.

BENDING above the spicy woods which blaze,
Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the sun
Immeasurably far; the waters run

Too slow, so freighted are the river-ways
With gold of elms and birches from the maze
Of forests. Chestnuts, clicking one by one,
Escape from satin burs; her fringes done,
The gentian spreads them out in sunny days,
And, like late revellers at dawn, the chance
Of one sweet, mad, last hour, all things assail,
And conquering, flush and spin; while to enhance
The spell, by sunset door, wrapped in a veil
Of red and purple mists, the summer, pale,
Steals back alone for one more song and dance.
Mrs. H. H. Jackson.

The bee knows honey,
And the blossoms light,
Day the dawning,

Stars the night;
The slow, glad river

Knows its sea;

Is it true, Love,

I know not thee?

October 2.

Mrs. R. T. Cooke.

'Tis nobler far

To bear defeat than shine a star
In circled seat of rounded fame.
I reach my hand in trust to you.

Other work for man is none

But to do the Master's will;

Joaquin Miller.

Wet with rain, or parched with sun,

Meekly I Thy garden till.

October 3.

Robert Lowell.

Though tangled hard life's knot may be,

And wearily we rue it,

The silent touch of Father Time

Some day will sure undo it.

Then, darling, wait;

Nothing is late.

Mrs. M. M. Dodge.