THE FAERY YEAR 



quickening. It is as though the sap, far from going 

 down to its winter store-rooms, were rushing up, 

 kindling every twig-tip with fire of life. The 

 illusion of spring in autumn has been remarkable 

 in several trees this season, with the birches at their 

 first flush, and here and there with a green-yellow 

 elm ; but nowhere so strong as among the oak 

 woods in November. 



The Infinite Insect 



The grey hours, on the whole, are the richest in 

 colour and tint. Take the oaks. In the full sun- 

 shine they offered nothing approaching the variety 

 of subtle hues the undertones of the wonderful, 

 baffling colour-world which they gave when the 

 sky was overcast. It is much the same now the 

 woods are bare. True, the oaks on the rain-beaten 

 side of the forest are beautiful on a flashing Novem- 

 ber morning, branch and bole all in the lichen grey. 

 Seen, too, on such a morning, the woods wear a 

 certain look of tidiness, cleanness, after the litter 

 and disarray of leaf-fall. It is later in the day, 

 however, after the sun has lost its power, that the 

 purple blooms gather, and the whole wood grows 

 winter blue. In the morning indeed, till the sun- 

 shine begins to fade at three o'clock, or so the 

 fields and lanes in many places teem with life in 

 its least material form. The rising and falling 

 columns of insects gnats, ephemerae, cheironomi 

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