CHAPTER XX.
Golden September has come and gone, and brown October, her elder sister, more sober and not less beautiful than the yellow month, is here. The nuts are ripe, the corn is gathered, the apples stand in high pyramids in the four corners of the orchards,—one pile russet-brown, one rosy red, another deep yellow, and the fourth green with the color of the famous greening, the best apple in the world for cider and tart. It is the merry season of the year in good New England. The farmer's lads and lasses, who have not stolen one day's holiday during the busy time of ploughing the soil and planting the seed, of tending the ripening crops and finally of harvesting the fruits of the earth, now take what little of rest and pleasure the year holds for them. The county Agricultural Fair has drawn people together from the remote hamlets and scattered farms which radiate from the centre of Woodbridge. The roads are alive with vehicles of all degrees, from the ox-cart laden with giant vegetables on its way to the Fair, to the spider
