When the wild plums ripen in the thicket by the creek and the grapes are purpling in the kisses of the sun; when even the sunlight itself grows mellow and the landscape wears a dreamy haze, colored like the bloom on a plum, as if the year, too, had reached perfect ripeness; then it is mid-September and Iowa begins a season of loveliness which shall hardly be excelled anywhere on earth.

Young birds imitate the spring songs of their parents in a faint, wistful, reminiscent way, some of those hatched early in the year rising almost to full song, as in the case of the meadow larks whose music rings through the meadows and makes the balmy afternoons seem like those of early May. The wild strawberry blossoms again; the violet and some of the other spring flowers. But the signs of the passing of the summer are everywhere in evidence. Dense, white morning mists—the September mists—lie in the valleys and yield but slowly to the shafts of the rising sun. Flocks of feathered voyagers are shaping their course toward the south. Gold and crimson leaves grow more numerous along the lanes and in the woods. Antares, Altair and Vega, with the summer constellations, are passing farther towards the west, while before bedtime Fomalhaut may be seen at the mouth of the Southern Fish in the southeast and the creamy white Capella is leading up Auriga in the northeast. Between them, just over the eastern rim of the world, appear the Pleiades, their "sweet influences" in keeping with the season. The summer is passing, but not in sadness. Some of the greatest of its glories are reserved for these last days.

Now the cicada, forgetting to give his winding salute at sundown, has almost dropped out of the insect orchestra and the katydid, too, is heard less often. The rest of the screeching musicians vary the volume and the speed of their music in approximate ratio to the temperature. In the warm evening they saw and rub away at presto time as if they were determined to get to the end of the selection before the curtain goes up for the moonlight scene; but they slacken to moderato when the nights grow cooler, slower, always slower, and fainter as the chill air creeps through the woods. When the north wind filters coldly through the trees their music thins and dims till it sounds pathetic as the tick of a tall clock in a lonely house at night. But it warms up again with the sunshine next day, keeping time and tune with the varying moods of the final days of the summer. When a dreamy, hazy day is followed by a mellow night and little patches of white moonlight lie dreaming beneath the trees, the crickets have a lullaby that comes in rhythmic beats, as if they watched the moonlight breathe and rocked the world to sleep.

Comforting and soothing as the touch of a loved hand on a fevered brow come the first cooling breezes of September after the fierce white heat of August. Sweeter than music is the sound of the wind, as it passes through the woods, welcomed by millions of waving branches and dancing leaves. It brings the call of the quail, the scream of the jay, the bark of the squirrel, the crack of the hunter's gun, the first notes of the returning bluebirds, the clean, keen scent of the earth after rain, the courage and joy of life, motion, action. Seen from the top of a cliff the acres of foliage spread out in the creek valley beneath has a motion suggesting the waves of the sea, now flowing in green billows before the wind, now whipped into spray at the shore of the creek where the willows show the white sides of their leaves.

In the fields the far-flung banners of the corn take on ripening tints and begin to rustle drily in the breeze. Golden ears, wrapped in tobacco-brown silk, are pushing from tanned and purplish husks. Newly-plowed fields were made possible by the rains which started the grass growing in the stubble, changing the color from amber to emerald and wrought a miracle of verdure in the pastures which August had baked brown. Here and there the aftermath of red clover has developed a field of new blossoms,—a little lake of pink where sunshine plays with shadow and sturdy humble bees spend the days in ecstasy.

Summer puts on her last bright robes for the final floral review before she is borne by the birds down the valley to set up her court in the southland. Tall and soldierly, this last gay army of the flowers passes in review before her. Blazing stars in pink and purple, tall and picturesque, with long rows of brilliant buttons; regiments of asters in blue and white and purple; rattle-snake root with big and quaintly slashed leaves and hundreds of tassels in delicate shades of lilac, purple and white; swamp sunflowers in dazzling yellow, camped in millions along the creek bottom to make it more glorious than the historical pageant of the Field of the Cloth of Gold; plumy battalions of golden-rod, marshalled by the sun along every country lane; companies of tall, saw-leaved sunflowers with golden petals and darker disks, deployed along the fences and seen at their best in the twilight when they look like friendly faces with beaming eyes; as I write them so they march across the land and bow farewell to summer. There is no floral spectacle in all the land so fine as this march of the composites over the Iowa prairies and fields in September. That is the judgment of those who have travelled and observed. In the swamps and along the ditches the blue lobelias flourish and the companies of blue gentians are bringing up the rear to end the floral review, begging the summer to wait until they pass by.

The little creek near which I live rises in a little swale between two rolling ridges of the pasture. When it leaves the pasture only a narrow box culvert is necessary to take it across the road, but before it reaches the river, twenty miles away, a double-spanned bridge is required to carry the road over it. In the pasture where it rises it fails to furnish enough water for the cattle, but half way along its course it sometimes washes out bridges in the springtime and farther down it often floods the lowlands. Slipping silently among the feet of the long grasses in the meadows it is scarcely seen at first; but by-and-by it attains the dignity of a stream, winding through meadows and bordering orchards and grain-fields. Now the willows begin to mark its course, then elms and oaks and walnuts with little thickets of panicled dogwood and wild plum, where the wild grape and the bittersweet display their fruit and the wild duck sometimes makes her nest.

Sometimes the creek almost sinks from sight in a bed of hot sand; it leaves only a narrow runlet of water idling along the foot of the high bank and pausing in each deep pool at the feet of the overhanging trees to cool and refresh itself for its onward journey. To these quiet pools goes the fisherman with his minnow seine and a stick. He knows that in the water among the roots of the old tree lie shiners and soap minnows, creek chubs and soft-shelled "crawdads," the kind that make good bait for the black bass down in the river. He pokes around vigorously with his stick and sends them scurrying into his short seine. Hither also go the school-boy fishermen, with a willow pole and one gallus apiece, seeking to entice the patriarchal chub, the shiner and the stone-roller. From this point down, the young anglers are strung along the banks. Some try their luck for sunfish by the piles of loose rock and boulders, and some would tempt the bullheads from siestas in the mud.

Above the mill-dam the water backs up to form a peaceful pond which mirrors the trees and the rushes and cat-tails above it and sleeps beneath the thicket of willows where the redwings flock in the evenings. Broad leaves of the arrow-head and pickerel-weed give shelter to the coot, bobbing her head and neck as she makes nervous journeys through the water, sometimes scratching a long streak across its mirror-like surface as she uses both feet and wings in her haste to escape from the lone pedestrian. At sundown the sandhill crane may sometimes be surprised, standing like a silhouette by the shore of a grassy island. The awkward, wary bittern and the still more vigilant least bittern are familiar residents here.

Below the dam the creek winds at will through a peaceful valley, appropriating to itself an ever widening stretch from the farm lands. Sometimes it hastens down a pebbly speedway, then slackens its pace and wanders off from its course until suddenly it seems to grow alarmed, whips around a bend and comes hurrying back. Sometimes its level flood-plain is a quarter mile wide, bounded on either side by steep timbered hills which stretch on and on down the valley until the sky receives them in a glory of blue haze. Sometimes the creek has cut its way straight down the face of a high rock cliff on one side, while on the other side is a level meadow with bushy-margined ponds. In places the water of the creek lies asleep in a dream of sunshine, but further on it ripples and gurgles over a bouldered bed, walled in by rocky slopes. These are kept moist by water trickling down from hidden springs among the roots of the shrubs and vines, ferns and mosses which soften the grim limestone into beauty of form and color.

In the cool days of September, when walking is a fine art, I love to accompany the lower portion of the old creek down to the river, following the little path made by farmer boys and fishermen. The two posts at the fence by the roadside, set just far enough apart for a man to squeeze himself through, are the gates to a land elysian. When I pass through them I am a thousand miles from the city with its toil and pain, its strife and sorrow. Worldly cares drop from my back as I stand upon the brink of this creek and watch the water spreading itself out over the white sand. Time and distance lose their force as factors in my life. I have found and entered the lost lands of Theocritus. Beneath this black ash, touched here and there with the purple wistfulness of the passing year, Pan might have sat to play his pipes, the Cyclops might have pleaded with the graceful Galatea. This haze which hangs over the white oak grove, for aught I know, may be the incense from Druid fires. Along this valley Chaucer's Immortals may have gone a pilgriming, and in this bosky wood Robin Hood may have trained his band. The legend that from this cliff an Indian lover on his favorite pony once leaped to the creek a hundred feet below and a mighty funeral ceremony was held at the Indian mound a little farther down the valley seems to be attested both by the cliff and the mound. Before I have gone very far I am unconcernedly conscious that I have not the slightest idea in which direction lies the nearest road home, nor how far I have come. But I know that somewhere down the lavender-veiled valley the creek and myself shall reach the river at last and all will be well. There are so many beautiful things to see on the way that I would not hasten if I could. Life and the future is much like that.

There is a pleasant constancy in the companionship of a creek. It is always at home when I call, always seems to wear a smile of welcome, always has something new to offer in the way of entertainment. And it is changeless through the years. If I were to return some September afternoon after an absence of half a lifetime I should expect to see a green heron fly up the creek when I reached this particular bend and to find the kingfisher in his accustomed place on the bare branch of this patriarchal oak. At the next bend, where the current has cut the bank straight down I should look for the rows of holes made by the little colony of bank swallows. I should steal around the sharp bend by the old willow to see a little sandpiper on the boulder in mid-stream as of old. On a certain high grassy knoll I should find the woodchuck sunning himself and he would run towards his same old hole beneath the basswood tree, just as he does today. On the swampy edge of the stream I should find the perennial blossoms of this same corymbed rattle-snake root and its interesting spear-shaped leaves reflected in the water. From the dry bank just at the end of this ledge of rock my nostrils would catch the resinous odor of the creamy-flowered kuhnia and a more subtle aroma from the pearly-blossomed everlasting. The horse in the pasture would again come up and rub his nose in my hand and the cattle beneath the trees would make the same picture as in the days of long ago. Civilization can hardly spoil the creek. The spring freshets obliterate attempts at road-making and the steep hills protect it from encroachment and preserve its independence and wild beauty.

It is worth while to spend a little time with the friendly golden-rod which spreads all over upland and lowland almost as generous as the sunshine. To many of us one stalk of golden-rod looks much like another, but a very little study will readily enable us to distinguish between the different species and will add wonderfully to its interest and charm. There is the tall, smooth stemmed golden-rod, with saw toothed leaves, except near the base and ample pyramids of medium-sized clusters of blossoms; this is the solidago serotina, or late golden-rod. A similar golden-rod, but with hairy stems and smaller flower clusters is the solidago Canadensis or Canada golden-rod. Both these grow in the bottoms anywhere near the creek. Along the moist clay banks the elm-leaved golden-rod shows its tall stem with the leaves which give the plant its distinctive name, surmounted by several threadlike spreading branches strung with little bits of leaves and clusters of yellow blossoms at the ends, as if the slender, curving, green branches had been dipped in gold dust. On the same slopes may usually be found the zig-zag or broad-leaved golden-rod, with leaves as broad as the palm of a lady's hand and little wand-like clusters of blossoms, several of them from the axil of each leaf. This plant is called the zig-zag golden-rod because its stem often turns first one way and then the other, as if it hadn't made up its mind which way to grow. Higher up on the dry rocky banks is the gray or field golden-rod, whose small leaves are covered with grayish down and whose rather short stem is topped by a flattish pyramid of brilliant yellow flowers. This is one of the early golden-rods, but it lasts well into the fall. Another handsome species which is fairly common is the solidago rigida, or hard-leaved golden-rod, whose leaves are thick, rough and fairly broad, the lower ones sometimes a foot long, and whose flower clusters form a broad flat top. Each cluster is very large, containing twenty-five or thirty flowers if you care to pull one to pieces and count them. One stem will have several hundred of these flower clusters and each cluster contains twenty-five flowers on an average, a fine example of Nature's wealth and bounty. Perhaps the most handsome species of all, here in Iowa, is the solidago speciosa, or the showy golden-rod, which sometimes grows five, six or seven feet high in rich soil, with a stout, smooth stem and big, smooth leaves, the lower ones broadly oval and sometimes from four to ten inches long and one to four inches wide. The Missouri golden-rod is a slender and dainty species with long, narrow leaves, their margins very rough, as you may tell by drawing your fingers along them.

There are about eighty-five different species of golden-rod in the United States, but the task of naming them all that grow in one locality is not difficult for the nature-lover. The above list is practically all that grow hereabouts. And it is so with the asters. There are about two hundred fifty species of asters, and most of them are found in North America. But usually a dozen or fifteen only are to be found in the average locality. Here, among others, may be found the beautiful aster Novae-Anglia, or New England aster with blue or rose-colored rays and a yellow center, the blossoms fluffy and large, often fully two inches across. In some parts of the east it is called "Farewell to Summer," but it may usually be found in the latter part of August. This year it was in full bloom as early as August 21. Another beautiful aster to be found on prairies and dry banks is the aster sericeus, or silvery aster, with silvery-white silky leaves and large, violet blue heads, the rays sometimes two-thirds of an inch long. One of the earliest and most common of the asters is the aster sagittifolius, or arrow-leaved aster, with white or pale blue flowers, and its companion, the heart-leaved aster. More beautiful is the lovely smooth or blue aster, the aster laevis, with clasping, oblong tapering leaves and sky-blue heads, sometimes violet, fully an inch across. The aster multiflorus, or dense flowered aster, is bushy with small rigid, crowded leaves, and a multitude of small heads crowded on the spreading branches, the rays generally white like big balls of snow. The aster salicifolius has a slender stem much branched above, long and narrow leaves, with violet, violet-purple or rarely white rays, and aster prenanthoides or crooked stem aster, may be told by its zigzag stem, its oblong, saw-toothed leaves and its violet rays. Two other beautiful species found hereabouts are the aster azureus, which blooms from August until after frost, with a slender but stiff and roughish stem, and many bright violet-blue flowers with short rays; and the aster Shortii, or Short's aster, which is found on banks and along the edges of woods and does not usually bloom until September. It has a slender stem and thickish leaves, heart-shaped at the base; its rays number from ten to fifteen and are usually bright blue, sometimes violet blue.

September brings us the first and one of the most beautiful of the gentians, the white gentian. We are accustomed to think of the gentians as brilliantly blue, but the first one to adorn the waste places where the horses could not take the mower, is this white gentian. It is one of the plants which make a magnificent appearance in a tall, thin-stemmed vase, in your library. You need but one and if you chance to find a patch you may take a plant without any compunction of conscience, for they are usually numerous. At the top of the smooth stem are four leaves with heart-shaped bases, gradually tapering to points at the ends. These four pale green leaves cross each other after the manner of a St. Andrew's Cross. Just where the four leaves are thus joined to the stem is a cluster of some six, eight, ten or even more, large, yellowish white, or greenish white blossoms. Perhaps at the next set of leaves, about four inches down the stem, there will be several other blossoms, in the axils. In the swamps and bogs the barrel-shaped blossoms of the closed gentians are growing larger day by day and by the twentieth of the month the fringed gentian, known only to a favored few, here in Iowa, will show the first of its blossoms.

In these last days of the summer there comes a grateful sense of the ripeness which crowns the year. Nothing in nature has hid its talent in a napkin. Every tree and shrub and herb has something to show in return for the privilege of having lived and worked in a world of beauty. Catbirds on the eve of their departure for the southland are feasting on the red and yellow wild plums, and the crab apples are beginning to give forth a faint fragrance which will grow more pronounced from now until October. The amber clusters of the hop are poured in profusion over the reddening fruit of the hawthorn. Farther on is the brook Eschol where the purple grapes are hanging. The snowy clusters of the sweet elder, which were so beautiful in July and early August, have developed into ample clusters of juicy berries which bring memories of the wine that grandmother used to make. Flocks of robins are feeding greedily on the abundant wild cherries. Thickets of panicled dogwood are feeding stations for other migrants; already the crimson fruit-stalks have been stripped of half their white berries. These native fruits are so many and so varied, they make the walk a constant delight. Each plant is a revelation. Who ever saw for the first time the huge clusters of fruit hanging from the wild spikenard on the face of the cliff and did not thrill with the charm of a great discovery? Each cluster of ruby, winey berries is as large as a hickory-nut and the clusters are aggregated upon stalks so as to resemble huge bunches of grapes. For contrast there are the little bunches of whitish berries on the low-growing false spikenard; they are speckled with reddish and gray dots as if they might be cowbird's eggs in miniature. Jack-in-the-pulpits show club-shaped bunches of scarlet berries here and there among the grasses. On the wooded slopes there are the white fruits of the baneberry on its quaintly-shaped red stalks, the pretty fruit clusters of the moonseed and the smilax. The scattered berries of the green-brier will be black in winter, but their September hue is a bronze green of a delicate shade which artists might envy. It will take another month to ripen the drupes of the black-haw into their blue-black beauty; now they are green on one side and red on the other, like a ripening apple. It's a fine education to know just which fruits you may nibble and which you must not eat. Red-stalked clusters of black berries hang from the vines of the Virginia creeper among leaves just touched with the hectic flame that tells of their passing, all too soon. At the sign of the sumac, tall torches of garnet berries rise. Down the bank, the bittersweet sends trailing arms jeweled with orange-colored pods just opening to display the scarlet arils within. Crimsoning capsules give the burning bush its name; this may well have been the bush at which Moses was directed to take off his sandals because he was treading on holy ground. Large, triangular membranaceous pods hang thickly from the white-lined branches of the bladdernut. Cup-like leaves of the honeysuckle hold bunches of scarlet berries. So on and on the creek leads to new beauties of color and form, new delights for taste and smell. Every plant has some excuse for its being, something of the loveliness and fragrance of the summer stored in its fruits. There is a lesson for the mind and the soul to be gathered with the fruit of these shrubs and vines. Summer still works with tireless energy. She has done with the leaf and the bud and the blossom; all her remaining strength is being spent in filling the fruits before the night of the white death comes.

Since the first of the month the little catkins have been creeping from the twigs of the hazel, and their tender, spring-like green is quite as interesting as the ripening bunches of nuts. These little catkins will hang short and stiff all winter, but when the ice goes out of the rivers and the first frog croaks in the springtime, they will lengthen, soften and grow yellow with their abundant pollen. Squirrels are busy among the acorns and the hickory nuts; the split husks and shells are thickly strewn beneath the trees. Red-headed woodpeckers are gathering acorns and pushing them behind the flaky bark of the wild cherry for use during the late fall; sometimes a little family of the redheads remains all winter. Chipmunks are carrying acorns to their granaries; they dash into their holes with a squeak as if in derision at your slow-footed manner of walking.

Sumac flames from the fence corners and lights up the country lanes. It is the first of the shrubs to announce in fiery placards the coming spectacle of the passing of the summer. Next is the Virginia creeper,—see where it flames up the wild cherry tree, scattering crimson leaves to the grass beneath. Once in a day's journey along the creek one may find a small red maple. In the middle of its foliage is a small, flame-like spot which grows larger day by day. Gradually some of the other maples catch the color fire, first a little soft maple by the shore of a muddy bayou, next a small sugar maple on the rocky slope. The great spectacle does not come until October, but the placards announcing it grow more numerous and vivid day by day. Blackberry leaves are splashed with crimson; daily the blood-red banner of the sumac grows larger and more striking. Walnuts and hickories begin to lose their yellow leaves; patches of yellow appear on the elms and the lindens; though the mass of the foliage remains until October, many leaves flutter down daily, and it is possible to see twice as far into the thicket as in June.

Flocks of grackles spend their days in the cornfields which run down to the creek bottom and their nights amid the wild rice and the rushes and willows in the swamp. In the timber fringes and the broad bottoms along the creek you get glimpses of the catbird feasting on the grapes and the wild plums; the brown thrasher and the woodthrush, wholly silent now; the little house wren who has lost her chatter; the vireos and the orioles, the wood pewee, the crested fly catcher and the kingbird. They all seem to be going southward. There are a few nests and young birds in the early part of the month—the yellow-billed cuckoo, the Savannah sparrow, the goldfinch. But these are exceptions to the general rule.

Little flocks of warblers flit among the tree tops and the bushy margin of ponds near the creek will soon be alive with the myrtle warblers—as numerous as English sparrows in a barn-yard. In the night time you may hear the "tseep" of the warblers as they wing their way swiftly towards the southland. Sometimes there is the tinkling sound of the bob-o-link, also flying in the night time, and in the morning there may be a flock of them in some meadow, leisurely getting their breakfast after their all-night flight, chattering to each other in the tinkling tones which are unlike any other song-talk in bird land.

The humming bird, the swallows, the purple martins, the chimney swifts, also seem to be a-pilgriming. Gradually you become conscious that all of them are flying southward, always down the stream and never up. The first keen blasts up in the northland have given them a warning and they are going steadily, happily, but for the most part silently, on down the stream, giving rare beauty to these halcyon days of late summer; on past the farthest point of your vision, where the silver gray mist softens the outline of the forest-crowned headlands, and lavender shadows hang gently across the valleys; always on and on towards the land where all is light and life and where summer ever abides in beauty. You look up and see flocks of cowbirds flying in the same direction and still larger flocks of night hawks, hundreds of them in the air at once. Like the queens on the mournful barge of the fallen King Arthur, their mission is to escort the dying summer floating down, always down

You can climb to the highest cliff and look down to where the creek valley blends with the valley of the river, standing as did Sir Bedivere where he

The summer which has just been escorted down the valley shall come again. You remember that even the mourners after the passing of Arthur, when the first keen pangs of sorrow were over, took heart again. This was the verse they carved on his tomb:

And the soul of the summer cannot die. In many a grateful heart it lives forever as a gentle memory of loveliness and sweetness and of inspiration to higher and better things. Neither shall it lose its individuality; for it has bestowed its peculiar charms, its own enlargements of knowledge, its rare enrichments of faith and hope; they were fuller and richer than those of any other summer. As the senses reach farther into the science of each summer, and the mind lifts the veil of Isis and sees a little farther into the harmony of her purposes, so the heart draws closer to the heart of the summer and receives a larger benediction, an essence of immortality, an ambrosial food richer and more real than that which sustained the ancient gods. And herein is hope for the race. It cannot be but that each summer, with its recollections of walks and talks with parents and friends in the summers long gone by, with its sweetest memories of life and love, with its mighty tides of growth and splendor, its wistful dreamy skies in these last days of its loveliness—it cannot be but that each summer warms many a heart with the thrill divine, lifts many a life to a plane of fairer vision and nobler purpose, instills a desire for a life more in keeping with its own strength and cleanliness and beauty. So does each summer help the world onward to