Autumn ope's his carpet bag and shakes his clothing out: jaunty cap of yellow, coat of gold and brown, gloves of orange and boots of red, he struts 'round field and town.

Summer packs her trappings - her floral scents and warmth - and gathers up her greenery, and flocks of birds, of course. She shuffles off so slowly, casting tender backward glances. "It's hard to leave a place you love," she sighs, as Autumn dances.

Once alone he paints the place with careless, wild abandon: no hue's too bold, no shade's too bright, there's no concern with clashing. He dabs at first, then paints a swath, then flings whole bucketsful! The hills and dales are glorious in Autumn's peerless fashion.

One night he slyly sets aside for "Autumn's Grand Finale." We're fast asleep when out he creeps and seeds the earth with glitter. "Wake up!" he shouts, when Dawn peeks out, and setting clarions a-twitter. "See what I've done! Is this not grand? Your joy is all I'm after!" The sun beams down and out we troop to marvel at the splendor.

Then one chill eve he hears a knock and calls, already knowing, "Who's there?"

"Guess who?!" howls Winter, hoarily. "Good gracious, how it's snowing!!!"