The great cricket factory has shut down.

Not a wheel is heard whirring.

The squirrel has lost his playful air, and has an anxious manner, as though there were no time to waste before stocking his granary.

Everywhere berries have taken the place of buds, and bearded grasses the place of flowers.

Even the goldenrod has fallen to rust, and the stars of the aster are already tarnished.