A NOVEMBER CHRONICLE. 



I 've gathered young spring-leaves, and flowers gay. 

 KEATS. 



I LOOKED forward to the month with 

 peculiar interest, as it was many years since 

 I had passed a November in the country, 

 and now that it is over I am moved to pub- 

 lish its praises: partly, as I hope, out of 

 feelings of gratitude, and partly because it 

 is an agreeable kind of originality to com- 

 mend what everybody else has been in the 

 habit of decrying. 



In the first place, then, it was a month of 

 pleasant weather; something too much of 

 wind and dust (the dust for only the first 

 ten days) being almost the only drawback. 

 To me, with my prepossessions, it was little 

 short of marvelous how many of the days 

 were nearly or quite cloudless. The only 

 snow fell on the llth. I saw a few flakes 

 in the afternoon, just enough to be counted, 

 and there must have been another slight 



