“You watch ’em,” said Ginger. They worked on for a time. The foreman stood on the bank and watched them work, Now and then he drank from a bottle. Spade felt hungry.

Autumn is filling his harvest-bins With red and yellow grain, Fire begins and frost begins And the floors are cold again.

Summer went when the crop was sold, Summer is piled away, Dry as a faded marigold In the dry, long-gathered hay.

It is time to walk to the cider-mill Through air like apple wine And watch the moon rise over the hill, Stinging and hard and fine.