k； for the harvest moon is nothasty； it es early and stays late。 There was a time when the busy farmer could return to the fields after supper and continue his harvest by moonlight。 There’s still harvesting to be done； but much of it now centers on the kitchen rather than the barns。 The last bountiful yield es from the garden； the late sweet corn； the tomatoes； the root vegetables。 The canning； the preserving； the freezing； the kitchen harvest in all its variety； reaches its peak。
First frost es in the night； a clear； scant…starred night when the moon is near its fullness。 It es without a whisper； quiet as thistle down； brushing the corner of a hillside garden。 Dawn es and you see its path—the glistening leaf； the gleaming stem； the limp； blackening garden vine。
Another night or two the frost walks the valleys in the moonlight。 Then it goes back beyond the northern hills to wait a little longer； and the golden mildness of early autumn forts the land。 A faint anise smell is on the air； goldenrod scent。 The mistswirls and September shines through； the deep…blue sky of September。
To warm…blooded creatures； the crisp； cool nights of September are invigorating。 But cold…blooded insects are at the mercy of the sun and now their clocks run down。 The cicada is stilled。 The chorus of the cricket and katydid diminishes。 When they rash at all it is with the deliberate tempo of a fiddler drawing a worn bow across fraying strings。
Now e the hoarding days。 Mice