A NEW FACE AT THE DOOR. 



ONCE more the sky is blue, the sun is warm. 

 But although rain and wind and misty air are 

 forgotten for a season, the stormy weather has left its 

 mark upon the landscape. Bright days may lengthen 

 out for us the glory of this golden year, but Summer 

 sleeps, no spell can wake her more. A week ago the 

 elms were all untouched by the keen autumn air ; the 

 creeper had not scattered on the grass its crimson 

 leaves. The green of the woodlands was the green of 

 summer still. But now along the woodland ways the 

 leaves begin to fall j the needles of the pine are 

 scattered on the path. There is gold upon the leafage 

 of the lime ; a ruddy glow is kindling on the rowan. 

 There is a look of autumn everywhere. The hawthorn 

 and the ash are shrivelled by the wind ; the flowers 

 are beaten down, the birds are still. Summer was 

 with us but one short week ago, and now — ' There is 

 a new face at the door.' Now twilight airs grow 

 keen and cold. There is rime upon the moorland 

 grass ; there is snow upon the hills of Wales. 



IO 2 



