268 FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



picture, when the hoar-frost lies thick upon the empty 

 boughs, and the crisp leaves that hang on the hedge, and 

 upon those swept by the wind ; to see them sparkle in the 

 light of the rising sun, as it creeps up from its bed of mist, 

 smiling through the opal curtains, gives promise of a genial 

 day. The tinkle of cattle-bells ringing through the fast- 

 vanishing mists rising from the meadows breaks the stillness ; 

 and then the warm sun, having conquered the vapours, 

 calls forth the belated insects from their hiding-places, and 

 renewing their Summer energy, are soon upon the wing. 

 Watch them in the sunlight as they collect around the ivy 

 flowers, one of the latest of late blossoms. 



But for another pastoral a day of twilight and rain, a 

 veritable November day. Hour after hour of rain beating 

 down from a leaden sky on to the few remaining leaves, and 

 battering down those already fallen deeper into the earth in 

 Nature's own ever-wonderful way, to be food in their decay 

 for the sleeping flowers. Among the stubble of the fields, 

 the stones, washed clean with the rain, stand out, reflecting 

 the sky's grey light. November rain, how depressing it is, 

 how wearisome the dark and murky day, suggesting gloomy 

 thoughts, whispering of death and decay, yet bidding us hope 

 through all ! So different is the cold rain in comparison with 

 the sweet rain of April, that, falling upon the awakened earth 

 and unfolding leaves, tells us of life new born. Sad days are 

 these which give no shelter to the birds among the leafless 

 branches ; horses and other cattle in the pastures look pitiable 

 in the beating downpour as they stand huddled together in 

 the shelter of the hedge, gazing upon us with their large, 

 patient eyes, if perchance we pass. A sad pastoral, but not 

 without interest. 



