ON PLAIN AND PEAK 



away that fairy bubble has burst that castle in 

 the air, that you took such pleasure in building 

 up, has come toppling down about your ears and 

 there is nothing left but nothingness the blank 

 weary long winter of life ! Some call it disillusion, 

 or it may be called the death of hope. To most of 

 us it comes sooner or later and God help each one 

 of us when it does come ! 



But let us go out into the woods this fine autumn 

 evening. Here is some cultivated land in the 

 middle of the forest, and this patch of clover is a 

 favourite feeding-place for the roe we may get a 

 shot at a buck perhaps. There is a schirm just at 

 the edge of the wood, a shelter of fir branches with 

 a seat in it, where we can sit and watch without 

 being seen. 



The sun is sinking slowly behind the high wood 

 on our right, sinking in a soft haze, that veils the 

 dark forest before us in blue vapour. Not a breath 

 of wind stirs the great trees that rise heavenwards 

 the oaks yellow and red with their changing 

 foliage ; the firs ever the same sombre green 

 against the blue sky. Overhead the squirrels are 

 clicking and chattering, as they gather their stores 

 of acorns that are to last them through the coming 

 winter busy little toilers, with their bushy tails and 

 bright, black, beady eyes. How they swear when 

 an acorn slips from between the nimble paws, and 



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