Why is it great? Here in E.B. White’s Maine, August is bittersweet, bringing whispers of summer’s end even at the height of its ripeness. Apples, the fruit of fall, begin to color on gnarled trees. Bright yellow goldenrod sprouts around blueberry barrens that are turning red long before the trees think of changing. The nights carry a hint of coolness, bringing thoughts of warm blankets. In this lovely sentence, White captures the ephemeral beauty of the season, and the acceptance of the cycle of life, death and rebirth.

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