There also linger a few late golden-rods,
and butterflies with limbs chilled by the crisp air.
Later on those same meadows are enveloped morn and eve in veils of
floating white mist; the golden-rod is gone; the butterflies lie in their
shroud; but grape-vines are loaded with rich purple clusters, ripened by
the frost. The beautiful persimmon trees glow with luscious fruit.
Roberta's mother used to gather the persimmon apples and pack them away in
glass jars, in alternate layers of fruit and sugar. They are as nice as
dates. Wherever you turn the ground is covered with nuts--hickories,
walnuts, and chestnuts. You can hear them "drop" every few seconds.
Sometimes I think our Kentucky woods were made for children.
That afternoon I am going to tell you about, when the forks of the road
were reached, Squire lifted the children down, cautioning them against
lingering too late, mounted his wagon and was about starting when there
appeared a little ahead two horsemen riding abreast and coming directly
toward the children. They were dressed in gray, and sat their horses with
the air of "Charlie has come to his own again," softly singing snatches of
"My Old Kentucky Home.
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