364 Field, Forest, and Wayside Flowers 



weather, when yellow leaves shower down under 

 dark skies, it is truth, not only cheering but scien- 

 tific. 



In those myths which were the nursery tales of 

 the world's childhood men were told, ages ago, 

 and over and over again, that winter is the sleep, 

 not the death of the fields. The winter world is 

 Brunehild pricked by Odin's sleep-thorn. She is 

 wrapped in slumber which seems as deep as that of 

 death, yet she will wake at once to the kiss of 

 Sigurd the summer sunshine. 



The beautiful summer is Proserpine carried off in 

 the flower of her loveliness by the grim Lord of 

 Hell and mourned for by her mother, Ceres, the 

 bountiful earth. And in the story of Alcestis the 

 myth occurs again. In both cases despair is turned 

 to joy. Proserpine, still young and fair, is restored 

 to her mother's arms, and Alcestis is brought in 

 triumph to home, husband, and children, and her 

 return is celebrated with feast and song. They are 

 both stories of the sure return of spring poetic 

 ways of saying that winter seems to rob and slay, 

 but in reality does neither. 



To one who goes into the autumn fields with 

 eyes opened by Nature-study, they are " happy 

 autumn fields" indeed. The idea of death, which 



