trees, as if they would fain repeat the summer without the intervention of winter.
Dense flocks of bobolinks, russet and rustling like seeds of the meadow grass floating on the wind, or like ripe grain threshed out by the gale, rise before us in our walk. Each tuft gives up its bird. The purple finch or American linnet is seen early in October moving south in straggling flocks and alighting on the apple trees, reminding us of the pine and spruce, juniper and cedar, on whose berries it feeds. In its plumage are the crimson hues of October evenings, as if it had caught and preserved some of their beams. Many a serene evening lies snugly packed under its wing. Then, one after another these little passengers wing their way seasonably to the haunts of summer, with each a passing warning to man:—
Until at length the north winds blow,
And beating high mid ice and snow,
The sturdy goose brings up the rear,
Leaving behind the cold, cold year.
Page 83.—Continuing his remarks on Lovelace, Thoreau says:
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