Thoreau writes in his journal:
That the brilliant leaves of autumn are not withered ones is proved by the fact that they wilt when gathered as soon as the green. But now, October 31st, they are all withered. This has been the most perfect afternoon in the year. The air quite warm enough, perfectly still and dry and clear, and not a cloud in the sky. Scarcely the song of a cricket is heard to disturb the stillness.
