Gone were the banners of blossom from the great trees.

The locust and the chestnut, those spendthrifts of the woods, that went the pace so gorgeously in June, are now sober-coated enough, and growing even threadbare.

All the hum and the honey and breathless bosom-beat of things is over.

The birds sing no more, but only chatter about time-tables.

The bee keeps to his hive, and the bewildered butterfly, in tattered ball-dress, wonders what has become of his flowery partners.