An Autumn Day

It was， as I have said， a fine autumnal day， the sky was clear and serene， and nature that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundworeance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow， while some trees of the tendered kink had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange， purple and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air； the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beach and hickory nuts， and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

　　The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry， they fluttered， chirping and frolicking， from bush to bush， and tree to tree， capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin the favorite game of stripling sportsmen， with its loud querulous note； and the twittering blackbirds flying the sable clouds； and the golden-winged woodpecker， with his crimson crest， his broad black gorget， and splendid plumage； and the cedar bird， with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail， and its little monteiro cap of feathers； and the blue-jay， that noisy coxcomb， in his gay lightblue coat and white under-clothes； screaming and chattering， nodding and bobbing and bowing， and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

　　（from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving）