INDIAN SUMMER.

With your hazy distances, And your fine insistences, Of russet, amber, brown, From what region dost thou journey Hither to our fields a-tourney, Flinging thy dim gauntlet down? Dost thou come from Southern seas? Or from mountain fastnesses?

Ho, we call thee Indian Summer, O thou late and languid comer, Loitering our forest aisles; Idling with the sunshine dreamy, As with wandering a-weary, Chary, ever, of thy smiles. Thou hast come to claim the glamour Of the dear, departed Summer. —M. D. Tolman.