NOVEMBER 



showing a riot of color with which no native 

 bloom can compare, and all this as the year is 

 closing. 



The days of November are also the days of 

 December until the snows descend and the ice 

 comes; then all the outer defenses have been 

 taken, and the floral year is ended. But — 



"The world turns round, distrust it not, 

 Befalls again what once befell; 

 All things return, both sphere and mote. 

 And I shall hear my bluebird's note 

 And dream the dream of Auburn dell." 



— Emerson. 



182 



