The flowers are drooping one by one,
The wheat is garner'd, the work is done,
The vines are wither'd, their race is run,
October.

The waves are angry on Huron's breast,
The song birds have flown to homes of vest,
The trees in crimson and gold are drest.
October.

The summer light is waning fast,
Tlie sultry winds become a blast,
The autumn frost a blight has cast,
October.

Let us then work for a home above,
A haven of everlasting love,
Where truth will find the treasure trove,
October.
 
By Eloise A Skimings.