OF FALL 



the first frosty night puts an end to their 

 beauty and often to their life. Often in the 

 garden- ways of late fall we come upon a flower 

 of the summertime grown from an early- 

 ripened seed which the wind has sown. Some- 

 times these estrays almost startle us, so out of 

 place they seem. They always have a sort of 

 uncanny air to me. Perhaps they are memor- 

 ies of dead things which haunt the heart of the 

 dying year. Who knows? 



But even after the snows, which often fall in 

 November, have covered the dead leaves we 

 may find flowers in the woodlands. They are 

 not, however, revealed to a careless seeker who 

 expects to discover them by gleams of brilliant 

 color. It takes sharp eyes to ferret out the 

 Witch-hazel's tiny, fringe-like blooms, which 

 come along after the last leaf has fallen from 

 the branch. But they are there, and their 

 work is done in the dull November that closes 

 the season, as if they had somehow got behind- 

 hand during the day and must finish their labor 

 after the nightfall had closed in. 



