NOVEMBER 



one complexion they all come, a fine, rich brown, 

 often with a bluish-red flush beneath, a color 

 they do not lose on the tree or on the ground. 

 It is especially pleasant to walk among these 

 fresh Oak leaves, so exquisite their shape, so 

 fine their texture, so compelling the charm of 

 their golden brown, so loose they lie, at ease — 

 a poise they will not lose; though the snows of 

 winter cover them deep the bright days of 

 spring will find them beautiful and unchanged. 



November throbs with color, in low tones it 

 is true, but with a depth that tears one's heart- 

 strings. The yellow-browns and dull reds of 

 soil and stubble, the pale yellows of meadow 

 and pasture, the last flicker of dying chlorophyll 

 merge into purple shadows, in which all unite, 

 and so united the wave of color surges up and 

 about the gray trunks and varied tops of the 

 surrounding woodland. 



Drive with a seeing eye through and by the 

 deserted fields and the mystery of these en- 

 chanted distances reveals itself. A wood of 

 Maples and Beeches becomes a deep blue-purple. 



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