The fields are cut, the granaries are full, the bins are loaded to the brim with fatness, and from the cider press the rich brown oozings of the New York Imperials run. The bee bores to the belly of the yellowed grape, the fly gets old and fat and blue, he buzzes loud, crawls slow, creeps heavily to death on sill and ceiling, the sun goes down in blood and pollen across the bronzed and mown fields of old October. Meanwhile the leaves are turning, turning, up in Maine, the chestnut burrs plop thickly to the earth in gusts of wind, and in Virginia the chinquapins are falling. There is a smell of burning in small towns in afternoon, and the men with buckles on their arms are raking leaves in yards as small boys come with straps slung back across their shoulders. The fire will snap and crackle like a whip, sharp acrid smoke will sting the eyes, in mown fields the little vipers of the flame eat past the black coarse edges of burned stubble like a line of locusts.
Fire drives a thorn of memory in the heart.
Thomas Wolfe 25 possible points 1. The author begins by asserting that autumn is the richest of seasons. List three details from the selection that seem especially effective in conveying this impression of richness. The author uses details that appeal to the senses. October is the richest of seasons.