No More Learning

And
poor indeed must be that New England village's October which has not
the maple in its streets. This October festival costs no powder, nor
ringing of bells, but every tree is a living liberty-pole on which a
thousand bright flags are waving.

No wonder that we must have our annual cattle-show, and fall training,
and perhaps cornwallis, our September courts, and the like. Nature
herself holds her annual fair in October, not only in the streets, but
in every hollow and on every hillside. When lately we looked into that
red maple swamp all ablaze, where the trees were clothed in their
vestures of most dazzling tints, did it not suggest a thousand gypsies
beneath,--a race capable of wild delight,--or even the fabled fauns,
satyrs, and wood-nymphs come back to earth? Or was it only a
congregation of wearied woodchoppers, or of proprietors come to
inspect their lots, that we thought of? Or, earlier still, when we
paddled on the river through that fine-grained September air, did
there not appear to be something new going on under the sparkling
surface of the stream, a shaking of props, at least, so that we made
haste in order to be up in time? Did not the rows of yellowing willows
and button-bushes on each side seem like rows of booths, under which,
perhaps, some fluviatile egg-pop equally yellow was effervescing? Did
not all these suggest that man's spirits should rise as high as
Nature's,--should hang out their flag, and the routine of his life be
interrupted by an analogous expression of joy and hilarity?

No annual training or muster of soldiery, no celebration with its
scarfs and banners, could import into the town a hundredth part of the
annual splendor of our October. We have only to set the trees, or let
them stand, and Nature will find the colored drapery,--flags of all
her nations, some of whose private signals hardly the botanist can
read,--while we walk under the triumphal arches of the elms. Leave it
to Nature to appoint the days, whether the same as in neighboring
States or not, and let the clergy read her proclamations, if they can
understand them. Behold what a brilliant drapery is her woodbine flag!
What public-spirited merchant, think you, has contributed this part of
the show? There is no handsomer shingling and paint than this vine, at
present covering a whole side of some houses.
I do not believe that
the ivy _never sere_ is comparable to it. No wonder it has been
extensively introduced into London. Let us have a good many maples and
hickories and scarlet oaks, then, I say. Blaze away! Shall that dirty
roll of bunting in the gun-house be all the colors a village can
display? A village is not complete, unless it have these trees to mark
the season in it. They are important, like the town clock. A village
that has them not will not be found to work well. It has a screw
loose, an essential part is wanting. Let us have willows for spring,
elms for summer, maples and walnuts and tupeloes for autumn,
evergreens for winter, and oaks for all seasons. What is a gallery in
a house to a gallery in the streets, which every market-man rides
through, whether he will or not? Of course, there is not a
picture-gallery in the country which would be worth so much to us as
is the western view at sunset under the elms of our main street. They
are the frame to a picture which is daily painted behind them. An
avenue of elms as large as our largest and three miles long would seem
to lead to some admirable place, though only C---- were at the end of
it.

A village needs these innocent stimulants of bright and cheering
prospects to keep off melancholy and superstition. Show me two
villages, one embowered in trees and blazing with all the glories of
October, the other a merely trivial and treeless waste, or with only a
single tree or two for suicides, and I shall be sure that in the
latter will be found the most starved and bigoted religionists and the
most desperate drinkers.