Time of Harvest

ACROSS the bountiful land of America, Jack Frost is painting the mountains and forests with brilliant splashes of gold, crimson, orange and red. The fields that a short time ago echoed to the gay song of the meadowlark are now quiet, and the sharp tang of the autumn air seems to snap and crackle in the morning sun. The falling leaves from the birch, the maple and the aspen now carpet the ground with a kaleidoscope of color that has been woven from the loom of Mother Nature.