As the weeks rolled on the days began perceptibly to draw in, and the leaves turned gradually from green to golden brown.

It was the fall of the year, when the wind acquires an edge, and blue sky disappears behind purple clouds, and the world is reminded that ere very long all nature will be wrapped in a shroud of grey and silver.

Rain fell with greater frequency, the uplands were often veiled in a damp mist, the hours of basking in noontide suns by the old stone fountain were gone, and Austin was fain to relinquish, one by one, those summer fantasies that for so many happy months had made the gladness of his life.

There is always something sad about the autumn.

It is associated, undeniably, with golden harvests and purple vintages, the crimson and yellow magnificence of foliage, and a few gorgeous blooms; but these, after all, are no more than indications that the glory of the year has reached its zenith, that its labours have attained fruition, and that the death of winter must be passed through before the resurrection-time of spring.
"Ihr Matten lebt wohl, Ihr sonnigen Waiden, Der Senne muss scheiden, Die Sommer ist bin." And yet the summer did not carry everything away with it.