THE FAERY YEAR 



Those who design the country home, large or 

 small, and lay out its grounds, rarely consider any- 

 thing but landscape, or, if it is near the coast, sea- 

 scape ; but, even if they did, it would often be 

 necessary, for warmth and comfort, to screen the 

 quarter of the sky in which Orion begins to be so 

 glorious on November nights, low down on the east, 

 lying almost prone, with his feet just clear of the 

 dark rim of the earth. Perhaps the best twelve 

 hours for sky, wood, and water colour and contrast 

 at this time of year are those from which the sun- 

 shine is almost banished. First we have a louring 

 afternoon sky, a pall, whose exact tint and texture 

 the dead-calm lake in the pine-woods will copy. 



On this water the swans float angel-white, and 

 are so sharply figured that they look as if they were 

 clipped out. There is no suggestion of fluff" or 

 feather about the swans, with their proud necks, at a 

 short distance. The snowy swan on the leaden lake 

 is a dark day contrast by which we are sometimes 

 struck in summer, but it belongs, I fancy, of more 

 right to the autumn. A gleam of sunlight or ripple 

 of wind on the water, and it is spoilt. 



At sunset the great roof of cloud is dispersed in 

 a heavy rain, which beats to the earth and water all 

 the particles that float in the air the fine unseen 

 dust of the skies and leaves an atmosphere of 

 exquisite clearness. Then it rapidly darkens, and 

 the rising stars in the north and east bicker on a 

 blue that is nearly sable. 



Through such a refined atmosphere, ordinary 

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