Where Town and Country Meet 



defined regret or momentary foreboding. 

 But on the whole it is a cheerfully sober 

 and somewhat quiet wind, that one loves 

 to listen to while at work in a sunny room. 



October's wind is the most uniformly sad 

 of all. It blows in irregular puffs, scatter 

 ing handfuls of golden leaves with every 

 sigh, and sometimes shakes your window 

 with an almost fierce and morose protest 

 against the inevitable. I must confess that 

 I like the October wind least of all. It is 

 too petulant, too rebellious, too fitful. It is 

 the voice of nature's first unreasoning, un- 

 chastened revolt against her annual testing 

 and renewal. 



With November comes a braver and saner 

 wind, whose sound I like right well. It 

 is the voice of nature's penitential mood, 

 strong, sincere, and sweet. It roars through 

 the trees, and strips them unhesitatingly of 

 their faded leaves not plucking them off 

 in little reluctant, petulant handfuls, as did 

 October's gusts. It rattles your casement, 

 and tells you unequivocally and even cheer 

 fully that nature is making ready for her 

 winter struggle, and that you must promptly 

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