The Leaves Have Fallen in Chino Valley

Chino Valley. north of Prescott. was named by the explorer Whipple. who called it "Val de Chino." "Chino." he wrote in 1853, "is said to be the local Mexican name for grama grass, which grows luxuriantly in this valley." The valley is a greer. oasis in summer. with wild flowers growing on the ditch banks and along the fences Shade trees hide the farm houses from the sun. There is heard the drone of insects and the chatter of birds. In summer. too. is heard the hum of traffic. U. S. Highway 89 crosses the valley and during the summer months a little over 1,000 automobiles a day passed over that highway. When you have finished your daily chores. you can always sit on your porch and watch the cars and the world go by.Summer has gone now from Chino Valley. The grass is brown and dry. The leaves have fallen from the trees. There are no flowers and but few birds, strag-glers headed south. From the north the wind brings the high, steel-gray clouds. and in the hills the wind is playing hoops with the tumbleweeds, rolling them along and piling them against the fences. The drowsiness of summer has given place to autumn's impatient briskness. The fields and pastures are resting, and the tractor is safely put away in the barn. The windmill is a tired giant. defying the elements. and how gaunt it looks on the skyline.The leaves that have fallen from the trees are blown along on the ground. The bare branches of the trees feel the touch of the wind and high above the cold clouds hurry along. R. C.

NOVEMBERING

Tawny November has topaz eyes, gusty breath and moody skies . . .

But if she gives you one amber day. no other siren will find a way To keep your heart from wild remembering . rustling thoughts will ever go Novembering . . .

GRAY GEESE FLYING

Give me a gray day, with fall in the air, Dark, heavy clouds above, a chill wind sighing; Some prescient super-sense, transient and rare, Thrills to the raucous note of wild geese crying.

Splashed with gay red and gold, the dark wood marches Down to the deep vales where blue haze is lying; Ah, leaden-footed me, mute by the marshes, While o'er me. wild and free, gray geese are flying!