indifferent to our calendars. Autumn may At the 

 burn the lime and chestnut while Summer is Turn of 

 still in her glory; Summer may steal back 

 upon us through the September haze, or even 

 after we have heard the dry rustle in the 

 woods of October. We are familiar with the 

 return of halcyon days when St. Luke's Peace 

 follows the wind Euroclydon, or when St. 

 Martin's summer gleams like a quiet sunset 

 on the stormy brows of Winter. In mid- 

 December the gnat may still be seen spinning 

 her dance by the hedgerow, the warmth-loving 

 bat may still wheel through silent afternoon 

 dusks, the robin will pitch his blithe song 

 from holly to holly, the hedgesparrow will 

 chase the winter moth, the chaffinch will 

 challenge the marauding tit. In January, 

 when the snow-lids open and the blue is seen, 

 a lark will spray his sudden music from far 

 up in the pale azure, and as the long notes 

 tinkle and the interwoven song falls down the 

 blue invisible ways, we almost imagine that 

 sky-glimpse to be the very face of spring. 



Thus we have to wait for no day on which 

 to note from the calendar that the New Year 

 is come, or on which to exclaim that Winter 

 is gone and Spring has arrived. A day may 

 come, in February, perhaps, when, suddenly, 

 one will realise, as after sleep one realises one 



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