第9部分(第5/7 頁)

k；　for　the　harvest　moon　is　nothasty；　it　es　early　and　stays　late。　There　was　a　time　when　the　busy　farmer　could　return　to　the　fields　after　supper　and　continue　his　harvest　by　moonlight。　There’s　still　harvesting　to　be　done；　but　much　of　it　now　centers　on　the　kitchen　rather　than　the　barns。　The　last　bountiful　yield　es　from　the　garden；　the　late　sweet　corn；　the　tomatoes；　the　root　vegetables。　The　canning；　the　preserving；　the　freezing；　the　kitchen　harvest　in　all　its　variety；　reaches　its　peak。

First　frost　es　in　the　night；　a　clear；　scant…starred　night　when　the　moon　is　near　its　fullness。　It　es　without　a　whisper；　quiet　as　thistle　down；　brushing　the　corner　of　a　hillside　garden。　Dawn　es　and　you　see　its　path—the　glistening　leaf；　the　gleaming　stem；　the　limp；　blackening　garden　vine。

Another　night　or　two　the　frost　walks　the　valleys　in　the　moonlight。　Then　it　goes　back　beyond　the　northern　hills　to　wait　a　little　longer；　and　the　golden　mildness　of　early　autumn　forts　the　land。　A　faint　anise　smell　is　on　the　air；　goldenrod　scent。　The　mistswirls　and　September　shines　through；　the　deep…blue　sky　of　September。

To　warm…blooded　creatures；　the　crisp；　cool　nights　of　September　are　invigorating。　But　cold…blooded　insects　are　at　the　mercy　of　the　sun　and　now　their　clocks　run　down。　The　cicada　is　stilled。　The　chorus　of　the　cricket　and　katydid　diminishes。　When　they　rash　at　all　it　is　with　the　deliberate　tempo　of　a　fiddler　drawing　a　worn　bow　across　fraying　strings。

Now　e　the　hoarding　days。　Mice