JANUARY 17 



plants that people a river's banks. Then, at that season, 

 "it is," as a well-known writer says, " for ever striving to 

 tell us something, for ever imploring us to listen and to 

 understand ; we listen, we strain, we try to take in its vague 

 meaning; it is telling us sweet and mighty secrets, letting 

 drop precious talismanic words." In autumn how many of 

 us have watched the river winding by thinning woods beneath 

 the fierce sunsets of wild skies, and followed with our eyes 

 the floating leaves upon its swollen foam-laden breast like 

 miniature ships upon an angry tide. But the wintry river is 

 altogether different : it is silent and sullen and grey. Along 

 its banks, dotted here and there, stand the grey pollarded 

 willows, and upon the oaks, of a like hue, a few lingering 

 crisp red leaves, each 



"The last of its clan 

 Dances as often as dance it can." 



Besides these two trees every other is of the same colour, 

 made greyer by the veil of mist which January flings around 

 all things, while the sky above partakes more frequently of 

 this monotonous wintry tint. Yet beautiful withal is the 

 world in its unvaried uniform of quiet colour. The frost- 

 waves so often blown by the east wind this month across 

 the meadows have to-day left their impressions upon the 

 short grass, having arranged themselves into even rows. 

 Sometimes in summer we have noticed these inland waves 

 while standing by the slopes of wheatfields near the sea's 

 marge, when the breeze brings the kiss of the sea that lightly 

 tumbles upon each ear of golden grain, and as it steals over 

 the yellowing acres mimics the ocean a-near. 



The impressive silence of the leafless woods which we knew 



B 



