NOVEMBER 18$ 



How surely does autumn give a tinge of 

 melancholy to a garden reverie ! and how 

 the feeling grows with age ! But it is not 

 like the ideal sorrowfulness of youth, that 

 dwells so marvellous sweet in our 

 remembrance. It is simply that we 

 listen now to the shortened step of the 

 years to come ; it is only that now, we feel 

 and we know, how for us the days are 

 numbered that will bring back the flowers 

 in their season. Even the lilac bunches 

 of autumn crocus, both double and single, 

 which arise here and there on the bare 

 earth without any green about them do 

 not make much cheer. My pleasant paths 

 are all forlorn ; the singing birds are flown 

 or dead, and unbroken silence reigns in the 

 unleaved thickets they once loved so well. 

 There are no delightful surprises now ; 

 quite plainly and bare of all disguise we 

 see the empty nest in the fork of many a 

 leafless branch ; nests, to discover which 

 in the green June days, we used to peep 

 about and part the leaves or peer into the 

 heart of the yew hedge, so very unsuccess- 

 fully ! 



