SEPTEMBER 237 



top of the old elm, whose giant arms are now clothed in 

 golden leaflets. The ivy, as it winds itself around the aged 

 tree trunk, seems to me 'tis but a fancy to be sending 

 up a message to the tree top from earth that is all about the 

 flowers, and ferns, and grasses, the beauty of the undergrowth 

 at the tree's root ; the tree top in return sends back its 

 message of the great world it views from aloft, of the joy 

 of the blue sky, the glory of the sunset, the beauty of the 

 moon and the stars in their courses, that gleam above it season 

 after season when the world is wrapped in its cloak of snow, 

 or clad in its full garniture of leafiness. 



Here, with the sky for dome, Nature keeps her harvest 

 festival in the temple of the world. The villagers are busy 

 preparing for their harvest thanksgiving in the ivy-mantled 

 church, whose aisles will shortly be sweet with the odour 

 of fruit and flowers, sent from many a cottage garden 

 sincere offerings from servant to Master. This service at 

 the church is joined in most heartily, from the youngest 

 child of the village to the old grey-haired gardener, with 

 bent form, who calls to mind many a harvest verdict, who 

 numbers Spring-time sowings and harvest ingatherings by 

 the score ; and soon for him, with his years completed, his 

 life blessed and crowned with honest labour, must come 



" The final harvest hour," 

 with its sweet reward of rest. 



