Conversation at tea-time should be tranquil, I think. Not the time for world problems or controversial issues, but a time to rest the spirit, remember pleasant things. Everyone needs such a time, and tea goes well with it.
One morning I go out to pick wild asters and suddently it is September at Stillmeadow. I think it is the smell of the air, like wild grapes and windfall apples. I know fall is here, although the world is still green with summer. And I feel an urgency to gather in all the loveliness of the past blazing days and star-cool nights and keep them forever.
I put down the book I am deep in and go out to visit with the moonlight. As summer ends, I can feel the change in the air although I cannot describe it. There is a sense of nature herself becoming still as the richness of growth ends. It is a green world, and the night air is balmy, and tomorrow will be fair. But the mysterious forces are at work in leaf and stem and stalk. Autumn writes her signature in the zinnias.
The swamp begins to flame with red maple and our own overshadowing maples burn into red-gold. Nobody can ever explain to me just why the colors are the way they are, nor why they are never twice the same. Every autumn is a new glory and a different color harmony.