Walking where the shadows steal, across the garden here, 

 alone with memory/* 



MACKENZIE BELL. 



NOVEMBER 



O month of sorrow, when a robe the world enfolds 



All opal spun, that will not with to-morrow 

 Lifted be ; O days that now so seldom sun engolds, 

 O month of sorrow ! 



Weeps every tree its tears of gathered mist, low 



Upon dead leaves they fall ; our sight to-day beholds 

 A barren land, from which we may not borrow 



For days to come one hope, though every tree-bud holds 



Its Spring-birth dream through days of Winter's horror. 

 O land of leafless woods, and flowerless, sunless wolds, 

 O month of sorrow ! 



1 T/^ALE atque vale ! " In these, the first days of Winter, 

 " when almost all that is bright and beautiful in Nature 

 vanishes, this is the lament that escapes in silence from the 

 hearts of many who part with their garden favourites, and 

 have, in exchange for bright clear days, November's gift of fogs. 

 At times there are brief glimpses and fleeting visits of almost 

 summer days, one of the chief characteristics of November ; 

 only a few days since, in the warm sunlight, I noticed a dragon- 

 fly glittering on gauzy wings amid golden foliage, and a butter- 

 fly also amid the chrysanthemums. " Some Chrysanthemums 

 and a Rose." This is the title of a charming photo-study 

 from Nature received from a friend ; and what memories and 

 meaning it holds. In the rose, all the gladness and bright- 

 ness of Summer; in the chrysanthemums, all the thoughts 

 of Autumn seem expressed, the promises of the year fulfilled, 



and of Nature tired yet triumphant. But this is the fair side 



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