Saratoga is not a "Country where the leaves never fall, and the eternal day is summer-time." As the gorgeous autumnal sunsets of October crown the golden-capped, or no longer verdant forests, the summer beauties prepare to return to their winter homes. The falling leaves in this vicinity are wondrously beautiful, and the cool sunsets will richly reward those who tarry to behold them; but "the season" is over, and the little town becomes almost a deserted village.

"Brightly, sweet Summer, brightly,
Thine hours have floated by."A shade of melancholy cannot but possess those who remain after the last polka is polked, the last light in the last ball-room is extinguished, and the summer ended. At length the railway engine whistles at long intervals; the mail-bags lose their plethora; the parish preachers, shorn of occasional help, knuckle to new sermons; the servants disperse; the head waiter retires to private life, and the dipper-boy disappears in the shades of the pine forests; the Indians pack up their duds, and, like the Arab, silently steal away; while the landlords retire within their sanctums to count over their hard-earned dollars.

After a time the village seems to become accustomed to the "new departure," and local politics, Tammany rings and frauds, and committees of forty agitate the public breast, until Spring returns and Saratoga blossoms again with new beauty.