OCTOBER 255 



This is, too, the season of mosses. How tenderly Ruskin 

 speaks of them : " Meek creatures ! The first mercy of 

 the earth, veiling with hushed softness its dint less rocks ; 

 creatures full of pity, covering with strange and tender 

 honour the scarred disgrace of ruin, laying quiet finger on 

 the trembling stones to teach them rest. . . . They will not 

 be gathered, like the flowers, for chaplet or love-token ; but 

 of these the wild bird will make its nest, and the wearied 

 child its pillow. And as the earth's first mercy, so they are 

 its last gift to us : when all other service is vain, from plant 

 and tree, the soft mosses and grey lichen take up their watch 

 by the headstone. The woods, the blossoms, the gift-bearing 

 grasses, have done their parts for a time ; but these do service 

 for ever. Trees for the builder's yard, flowers for the bride's 

 chamber, corn for the granary, moss for the grave." 



