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No pen can describe the turning of the leaves—the insurrection of the tree-people against the waning year. A little maple began it, flaming blood-red of a sudden where he stood against the dark green of a pine belt. Next morning there was an answering signal from the swamp where the sumacs grow. Three days later the hill-sides as far as the eye could range were afire, and the roads paved, with crimson and gold. Then a wet wind blew, and ruined all the uniforms of that gorgeous army


This is from “Leaves from a Winter Notebook£ in Letters of Travel 1892-1913 , in which Kipling describes the turning of the seasons in Vermont, his much-loved home from 1892 to 1896