VIII 



Autumn 



^N every perfect day, Nature, 

 like a beautiful woman, cajoles 

 her true lovers into the belief 

 that she has never before worn 

 so becoming a dress. I have a conviction 

 of long standing that the world is fair- 

 est when the trees are first laced with 

 green, and little tender things are pushing 

 up everywhere and bursting into mira- 

 cles of delicate bloom. Yet, with each 

 heaven-born morning of the succeeding 

 seasons, this somewhat spasmodic faith is 

 weakly surrendered. It is impossible to 

 wonder at Lowell's 



" What is so rare as a day in June ? " 

 131 



