A WOODLAND WALK. 



THE fierce winds of November have swept away 

 at last the rich autumn foliage that, through 

 the long Indian summer, lingered so late upon the 

 trees. 



The elms that cluster in the sheltered hollows are 

 indeed still draped in gay attire, and shimmer in the 

 sunlight like a mist of gold. And the tangle of the 

 underwood, which wears no more the monotonous 

 hue of summer, is picked out with a myriad touches 

 of vivid colour. Tattered sprays of elm and maple 

 whose every leaf is turned to gold still cling here 

 and there, like points of light, among dismantled 

 boughs. 



But the green veil that hid so long the mystery of 

 the woodland has fallen, and the eye may wander at 

 will far into the forest sanctuaries. 



The paths are covered deep with scented spoils 

 that rustle with each passing tread. 



At times the wind, sweeping round a hollow of the 

 road, calls from their rest the coloured leaves that, 



