NOVEMBER 



their life lies dormant in the seed. This is ex- 

 quisitely told by Edith Thomas: 



(( ( 



You think I am dead', a soft voice said, 

 'Because neither root nor branch I own; 

 I never have died, but close I hide 

 In a plumy seed that the wind has sown. 

 Patient I wait through the long winter hours, 

 You will see me again, 

 I shall laugh at you then. 

 Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers."* 



It is astounding, as one thinks of it, how life, 

 all life, passes over the "molecular bridge," not 

 simply in ages past, but now, to-day. 



The trees frankly hibernate; they have cast 

 their leaves, have packed their juices, have pro- 

 tected their growing buds against harm, and are 

 ready waiting for the time when the sun turns 

 north and spring is again upon its way. 



November is the month of Indian summer, if, 

 indeed, we still have an Indian summer. Cer- 

 tainly, there come in November soft warm days, 

 after the first cool weather of October, days of 

 blue haze and mellow light and warm air, when 



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