The Kambles of an Idler 



tractive to those not young, finds fitting hours 

 in the tempered sunshine. Life is less a mys- 

 tery. The frost has cleared the air and we see 

 more clearly what the round year means. The 

 yellow leaves point hackward, and thought, in 

 October, is prone to travel in that direction. 

 Nature's activity is on the wane. Few are the 

 singing birds, but many the wandering voices 

 in the air. Whatever the time of year, there is 

 a marked difference between forenoon and aft- 

 ernoon. It needs no knowledge of the sun's 

 position to tell the hour. Meridian passed, 

 there is that lessening of activities so sugges- 

 tive of Nature taking a post-prandial nap. I 

 speak only of clear, sun-lit days, when the few 

 cloud-masses, drifting overhead, pass by un- 

 heeded. 



This is a perfect day. There is no speck or 

 flaw upon it. He who would search for a blem- 

 ish is not worthy of the dregs of earth. There 

 is gossamer now, but no cobwebs. The grass 

 glistens; the dead leaves are not dingy, and 

 what beauty they have is not concealed. What- 

 ever is, is best of its kind. It is now October, 

 not May. A ripe day, not a green, maturing 



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