" England ! the very name has power to conjure up a garden." 



CONSTANCE MEREDITH. 



SEPTEMBER 



year we have had an ideal dawn of Autumn the 

 crown of the year and yet sweet Summer lingers. 

 Over garden the butterflies hover amid the many gay-coloured 

 flowers, greeting each other as they meet in the golden sun- 

 light, as if wondering why and yet glad that Summer stays. 

 Yet when we turn our eyes away from sunny garden ways, 

 we see upon the face of those fields where lately waved the 

 corn, the long furrows showing strangely even through the 

 stubble. A striking contrast to these sun-loving things 

 which belong to the heyday of Summer, is the appearance 

 of our Winter friend, the robin. How plaintively come its 

 first notes, which are all of dead leaves and bare trees, frost- 

 bound river and desolate gardens not far distant. A few 

 days since the Autumnal gossamers were first noticeable. 

 Very quaint are some of the many superstitions connected 

 with the gossamer. In German folk-lore it is believed to 

 be the threads of the garments of the Virgin in which she 

 was buried, and which fell from her at her ascension ; they 

 are also termed Sommer-Fadden, from the idea that Summer 

 flies away with them. 



Although that slow change the greatest charm of Autumn 

 is seen stealing over hedge and tree and many a shrub, 

 certain paths still show all the loveliness of Summer-time. 

 Beautiful violas make thick borders of colour of violet and 

 yellow, and begonias keep undimmed the soft tint of blossom 



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